


A Pink Apron?

by rexthranduil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:23:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/rexthranduil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think he grows tired of us you know? Of people and life in general. I mean, there are days when he'll barely string two words together and when he does they're normally part of some hare-brained plan he has about some new and questionable experiment he's planning on bloody doing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's POV

**Author's Note:**

> God this is old but, I want to share it on here because I'm so proud of it!

**(John's POV)**

I think he grows tired of us you know? Of people and life in general. I mean, there are days when he'll barely string two words together and when he does they're normally part of some hare-brained plan he has about some new and questionable experiment he's planning on bloody doing!

I don't know whether or not he sees it but I do worry about him; boy do I worry. He's a fully grown man whose hand-to-hand combat skills are brilliant and his aim with a Browning is rival to mine, but you can't leave him alone in a room because he'll do something that'll cause an explosion; trust me on that one, and he can't be left to his own devices because he'll most likely die of malnutrition; once again trust me on that one.

It's beyond confounding then when he walked up to me just after I'd got back from the surgery, wearing a pink apron, and happily declared that dinner was ready.  _Dinner_?  _Him_? Wait, a  _pink apron_?

Who is he and where is the real highly-functioning sociopath I've come to partially know and completely love?

It's beyond inconceivable but here he is waiting room me to sit down before he'll sit at the dining table; not the little-desky thing in the sitting area, but the actual  _dinner table_. I'm starting to get worried now.

I don't know if this is one of Sherlock's sick and twisted experiment to test my responses or if he's genuinely trying to be nice to me; or it could be that the nicotine patches have finally sent him to high heaven and he's completely stoned? It could be any of those I suppose; he is Sherlock after all.

But I still can't get my head around the pink apron, and I don't know whether or not that's a good or bad thing.

"Sherlock?" I ask rather timidly although I'll never admit that since I'm an ex-soldier and all; you shouldn't be timid and afraid of a civilian. Well, unless they're as certifiable as Sherlock and can fire a gun at the wall in the shape of an almost perfect  _smiley face_  without even looking properly.

"Yes John!" Sherlock exclaims and now I'm really  _really_  scared; he's not looking at me with his look of ' _ **must-I-answer-your-mundane-questions-from-your-insignificant-mind?'**_  but it's more a look of polite, and maybe a little bit too intense, curiosity that he's giving me that's making me want to be on the other side of the room.

But I'm an ex-soldier so I won't make a  _tactical retreat_  just yet, I'll let my natural curiosity get the better of me; damn my curiosity!

"Um, not to sound ungrateful or anything but... what the  _hell_  is all of this?" I say hurriedly looking between my fidgeting hand on the table top and Sherlock's falling face. Oh damn it, I've hurt him.

I can see him hesitating now, it's fleeting and most people wouldn't have noticed it but I'm not most people; no, I'm the person who's just hurt his feelings because my brain functions on a level way lower down than Sherlock's does. Damnit to hell!

"I-" Sherlock hesitates again and I can now distinctly see the change in him; he's closing off his feelings now and I just know that he's going to answer with some intentionally insensitive and dismissive remark, "I was curious as to see the reaction someone as oblivious as you would have to the sight of myself preparing dinner; however you were late so I had to serve it instead of simply prepare it," slight barb there; not my fault I had a patient that wouldn't take no for an answer, literally.

That's Sherlock isn't it, and now he's going to stand up, take off that bloody apron, drag me up and kiss me-

Wait. No. I don't think he's going to go  _that far_ , and he doesn't which sort of disappoints me really. He walks off into the sitting area and throws himself onto the sofa, facing away from me. Childish? Definitely. Does it show how much I've hurt him? Yes.

There's no-one else like Sherlock Holmes and I don't think I'd ever want a cheap imitation of such a great man; he's one of a kind and I don't care if it makes me sound like a star-struck little fan-girl (or is it fan-man?) because I love him.

I love Sherlock Holmes. And I've just hurt his feelings because I'm average and boring.

Damn it to hell!


	2. Sherlock's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV

**(Sherlock's POV)**

Oh I'm not even going to bother explaining something as mundanely obvious to someone who doesn't even have the function to see anything beyond 'oh... pink apron?' but I must admit to you, you simple people, that I am quite worried of what John's reaction will be to me wearing this... thing. I don't know for sure but I do believe I am nervous, such a strange thing; do you people feel this all the time or is it fleeting? No! Don't answer that! I don't want to fill my head with such pointless information!

What do I care about everyone else? I am a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath so it doesn't matter to me what other people feel. Except it matters to me what John feels because I feel about John... why is that? Why does he make me feel? I don't feel, I've taught myself not to feel but he makes me. He makes me and I don't think he even realises what with his simple, but admittedly quick, thoughts and his lopsided smile that makes me want to hug him and do other things that are inappropriate think let alone fantasise about! And his eyes... oh so very expressive but can they be cold and hard to understand when he's hurt or in pain or angry with me; which is quite often actually, the anger part that is. I don't intentionally hurt him you know? No you don't know; why would you? You're not me, you're  _normal_.

I've been watching for him through the window inbetween checking the food; I'm going domestic! Heavens! He's late; he said he'd be back by now! Why isn't he back? Has something happened? No, that's a stupid, hasty and entirely emotional thought that is not rooted in any sort of certifiable theory. But that doesn't stop me from feeling and thinking it. Damn emotions... damn you John... I don't like feeling.

But I did once; well a long time ago, before I met John, before I grew up. Before life let itself destroy me. Damn you too life!

Anyway, letting my feelings run away which is completely idiotic of me, and I can say that because no-one's here to hear it and no-one's here to mock me so ha, I should be focusing on the food. The food, I didn't even know I had the capacity to cook let alone the patience to do such a mundane and typical thing; but Mrs Hudson was quite helpful with her direct orders, and I do mean direct, as well as the cook book and the ingredients she all but threw at me; honestly you'd swear she was trying to give them to me before I could change my mind. So impulsive, it really isn't becoming of people.

I alternate between the food, which is almost done, and the window but I don't see John; he's not here yet, why not? He should be! I should probably send him a text but then he might come running and if he does and it's only for dinner he might get angry; and I don't want him to get angry. Heavens no! John isn't as polite or as understanding when he's angry; quite the opposite in fact. Especially when you make a comment about exploding dogs and such; he's got a terrifyingly good aim with a 16th century-original book written in Latin. I learnt that the hard and painful way, of course I haven't mentioned anything to do with explosions and such since then; I do value my life and mobility you know?

Another five minutes before I'll have to dish this form of sustenance out, if he isn't here then I'll leave it to go cold and when he does get back I'll be even more of an insensitive git, as he's so quaintly put it before, than I've ever been and soon he'll be on his knees in front of me begging my forgiveness and I'll blackmail him into getting into bed with me.

Wait. No... I don't think he'd go that far with me. I'm the freak of nature remember? I'm not someone who he'll ever want to do anything like that with am I? No. He's already corrected almost everyone who's considered us to be a couple hasn't he? Of course he has. He's only my colleague, that's safe for him, safe for me too but it's not good for me. I want more with him. But he won't give it so I won't take it, even if I so desperately wish to. I was raised to be a gentleman; though I must admit I've never truly acted like one beyond not walking around nude in public. Though I suppose I could try that... I might get a few propositions perhaps...

Ah! The food! Heavens! This is your fault! Yes it is! Yours! Oh dear... it's slightly burnt. Of course, that being said how on earth would I know whether or not that's how it's meant to look? I've never cooked a thing in my life; well except for eyeballs, fingers and a tongue but they were for scientific purposes only.

Oh! Oven mitts would be advisable the next time I try and take a tray made of metal out of a heated oven. Must remember that so that I won't have to run my hands under the cold tap for five minutes before the burning reduces itself to a due throbbing; oh that's going to annoy me, I just know it. And what do I mean, next time? There wasn't even meant to be a first time! Why do I think they'll ever be a second? This is just an experiment... yes... mostly... sort of... well, it is now!

The front door's just opened, it must be John; damn I must have missed him when I was battling with the food. Damn you food; you've distracted me and you're already making my existence even more insufferable than it was beforehand. I can hear him loping up the stairs, but he's lagging a little, almost like he's tired or carrying something; I do so hope it's the latter, I don't want him to be tired at this early hour. Well, early to me; it's only six o'clock. I need to dish out this food quickly, very quickly. Oh dear he's about to open the door and these stupid blasted vegetables won't get off the bloody serving spoon; why on earth do people need to consume these things? They're so... annoying. He's walking in and he's stopped walking now, he's not talking; if I wasn't still battling with these vegetables I'm relatively certain I'd notice that he may have stopped breathing momentarily. What's he so surprised about?

Oh right... the apron. Yes well, I can understand that one at least. I'll smile at him and see what his reaction to that is too. It should be fun; fun for me that is.

"John!" I declare happily, smiling widely at him, "dinner is served!" I move over towards him, he's still staring at me like I'm an alien; not that an alien would look like me I have heard that scientists believe that any extraterrestrial life will look more akin to a bug and I am not a bug. I suppose I'll have to drag him over to the table since I don't think he has any inclination to move from the spot he's currently rooted himself to in shock. God heavens John! It's an apron! Get over it!

I steer him over to the dinner table, yes the real dinner table; Mrs Hudson told me in no uncertain terms that if I was to do dinner then I'd have to serve it at the dinner table... the wench. I wait for him to sit down before I push his chair in behind him, he seems surprised by that; I can't possibly see why, I do have manners and I have done a stint in a restaurant before. Granted I had been trying to catch a fraudster but still...

I dive into my own seat and that's when I realise I'm still wearing the bloody apron; oh well, it won't do any harm to me. To John however it seems to be a bigger thing to overcome than the dinner is; he's still ogling at it either that or he's checking me out. The latter I don't mind at all really; he need only ask and I will freely give him anything he asks for; except my violin. That's mine. Though I could be persuaded to share with him if you know what I mean...

"Sherlock?" he says, he sounds weary; no weary isn't the right word, he sounds more like a timid little child sounds when they're asking a drunken parent something and they're afraid of a negative reaction. Why is he so timid? What's he afraid of saying?

"Yes John!" I exclaim happily as I look at him intensely, maybe too intensely because he's fidgeting with his hand; a clear indicator that he's got something on his mind that's really bothering him and it's something to do with me. What doesn't have to do with me that bothers him I wonder? His nightmares obviously bother him, they bother me too because I can't comfort him because I don't want him to know I care; why am I so scared of letting him know that I truly care about him? Is it because of our enemies? I can't class them as only being mine alone anymore; they've seen John with me so he's a target too. Is it because I'm afraid of rejection from him? Maybe, it's not like I'm open about how I feel and the fact that I care so it's not like he's going to immediately accept my attempts at comforting him is he? Well if he does then he's either completely bonkers or he loves me... I'm hoping for the latter but I reason that it'd be the former of those two possibilities. Who could ever really love me? Be intrigued by? Yes. Be enamoured with? Yes. Be sexually curious about? Probably. Be in love with? No... I'm an insensitive sociopath remember?

"Um... not to sound ungrateful or anything but... what the  _hell_  is all of this?" John asks as he looks between his hand, which must be so very interesting to him, and me. Oh... I didn't think he'd ask... I didn't...  _think_. I don't know what to say to this; I don't know how to react. I've never had to react to something like this before. Whenever I've tried this with anyone; admittedly not to this extent and not with these feelings along with, I've always known what to say because I've kept it purely as an experiment. A test of human responses. But this isn't a test to me now... this is real... and I don't have a bloody clue as to what to say to him.

"I-" I can't think of anything, well I can but if I say any of that out loud I don't know how he's going to react to the spontaneous declaration of love from a sociopath; though I can realistically say, not well. I need to think of something to say; anything! Anything but my feelings for him! Damnit! Think! Think! Be objective; don't feel just think, don't be impulsive be analytical. Think... I think I've got it, "I was curious as to see the reaction someone as oblivious as you would have to the sight of myself preparing dinner; however you were late so I had to serve it instead of simply prepare it," I accuse him, there's still a bit of feeling seeping through and it's making my earlier worry come to the fore; but I do believe it's tinged with anger at the fact that he was late. Is this what normal people feel? I don't think I like it all that much.

He flinched. I made him flinch. Oh sure, it was minute but it was there and I saw it, and I caused it. My God... I feel... awful. I think I'm disgusted with myself; why does he make me feel like this! Why! I've hurt him... or does he think he's hurt me? Well he has but I'm not going to tell him that am I? No. I'm far too proud.

I don't want to be near him now, not now that I've hurt him; I can't be around him, it's not safe for my feelings. I'll tell him otherwise. I need to get away from him; even if it's only across the room. Still, the sofa's better than sitting next to him where our thighs almost touch and I feel the heat emanating from him which is making my sexual-drive go hay-wire. I need to move. Now!

I stand and his eyes follow me; it's almost like he wants something to happen, something... no. I can't think like that, I can't feel like that! I don't want to ruin this partnership for sex! But... this isn't about sex, well not just about sex... it's about these other feelings that run far deeper into my shadowed and layered heart than any other feeling has ever managed to do for so many years.

I almost dive onto the sofa and I purposeful turn to face the back of it so that he can't see my face which I'm sure is starting to falter and crack and show how I feel now. I can't let him see... I... just can't. It's not safe... not safe...

I can't let him know just how much I want to dive on him right now and do so many things to him to make him shout my name to the high heavens.


	3. Mix it up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narration, John and Sherlock's POVs

**(Narration)**

It had been more than a week and a half since that day when John had returned to 221b Baker Street to find a pink apron-clad Sherlock declaring dinner was served. It had been more than a week and a half since John had inadvertently hurt the detective's feelings and had then been rebuffed when he'd attempted to apologise to the still sulking man. It had been four days, three hours and roughly forty-four minutes since John had had a go at Anderson who had maliciously declared that Sherlock was nothing more than a deranged sexually-inhibited psychopath; and at a crime scene no less. It had been four days, three hours and roughly forty-two, no forty-three, minutes since Sherlock had quietly informed John to simply ignore the blathering fool since it was obvious that Anderson had been struck by a common, and most probably contagious, case of stupidity, and Sherlock hadn't wanted John to be infected with such apparent ignorance and ineptness.

Neither of them had dared to mention what had happened on the day that John had thus come to refer to as being the 'Great Pink Apron Catastrophe' and whenever they were standing next to each other there was always a healthy distance between them; a distance that hadn't been there before and John wasn't there now. But as much as John wished for it to suddenly disappear he daren't have a hand in removing it for fear of Sherlock's response; he'd hurt the man already and he didn't want to do anything else to upset or back him into a corner. It would make him seem like a villain and he wasn't a villain; no John was a good soldier, a good soldier who'd taken a bullet for a person who had already been dying when they'd been attacked by insurgents. John wasn't a bad person. He was just stupid. That wasn't his fault. Most people were stupid afterall.

So it came as a great surprise to the pair of them when they'd had to run from the small confines of the underground tunnels of London city; which they shouldn't have actually been inside in the first place but that's semantics, after the killer they'd been chasing decided to play a game of shooting, with real bullets. It was with the upmost urgency then that the duo ran as though their lives depended on it, and John was relatively certain that their lives did depend on their ability to run like an athlete; and zigzagging across the width of the tunnel was quite efficient when trying to avoid being shot. Sure it tired you out because you were basically doing three-point turns on a slippery surface whilst a madman was blindly shooting at you; but John knew from experience that it was ever so hard to shoot a moving target in the day, but in a barely lit tunnel it was damn-near impossible.

There was another, smaller tunnel that branched off from the one they were currently zigzagging about in and Sherlock didn't hesitate in running directly for it, with John following closely behind; it seemed that in such poor lighting their pursuer couldn't see where they were properly. Sherlock dived through the relatively small entrance, it seemed that these side-tunnels had your standard door-size entrances which made it both harder for the shooter to hit them and for them to get through the door without really slowing down, and turned around just as John came hurtling through it. And collided with him.

 

* * *

 

**(John's POV)**

We're running, and I do mean  _running_  people, Sherlock's doing this weird zigzagging motion as he runs along this stupid bloody tunnel; he looks a bit like one of those fly's that buzz around but they fly in a weird zigzag motion. I don't particularly think my brain's in that good a mood if it's comparing Sherlock to a bug. Anyway, we're running and running and oh yeah,  _still_  running, with the guy we were chasing now chasing us; only he's done one better, he's got a gun. A real gun, with real bullets. And I left mine at home so we can't compare; which is Sherlock's fault by the way. He was all  _ **'we don't need a gun this time John!'**_  and  _ **'we're not going to get shot at! Stop being dramatic!'**_ Dramatic? _Dramatic_? Well sorry for my paranoia; I'm a realist if he hadn't noticed and it's like the only logical thing to think of when you're meant to be chasing after a guy whose murdered six people before Lestrade called Sherlock. Murderer plus dark tunnels equals worried John and ecstatic Sherlock; both of whom don't have anything to defend themselves with! God there are times when I hate him you know? Like now...

I had enough of running for your life, ahem I mean making a tactical retreat, in Afghanistan; I had enough of getting shot at too in fact. But this is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, what does he care about what I prefer? What does he care about besides the case? Why do I care about the fact that he doesn't care? I shouldn't care about whether or not he cares, but I do... why?

Where is he? He's still doing that stupid zigzagging thing; I'm not going to admit to doing it myself... well, not in public at least. I spy him out of the corner of my eye; he's making a wobbly bee-line for one of the side-tunnels with those normal-sized door-frames. Seriously, who the hell designed this place with doors like that?

I follow after him, tactfully dodging a couple of bullets aimed my way; whether they're accidental or intentional I don't know and I'm not inclined to stop and ask Mr-trigger-happy. I can just about see him diving through the door, the light in these tunnels is about as awful as their architectural design; stupid architect. The flapping of his coat just as he careens through the door is the last thing I see of him as I quickly follow, fully intending to keep running as I'd expected him to be doing, only that wasn't how it ended.

No. Instead I bolted through the door, just as a bullet hit the frame literally a second after I passed over the threshold, and ran headlong into Sherlock who was stood facing the door. I'm guessing that I was running fast enough for Sherlock to feel like he'd been tackled by a less-than polite rugby player and as we crashed to the floor, far quieter than I had thought we would have, my head hit his chest and I splayed my hands out on either side of his head in that instinctual attempt to  _not_  hit the floor face first; which wasn't really possible since I had a Sherlock-cushion.

I didn't move. I didn't dare; where was the shooter? Was he standing at the threshold between the tunnels, looking in to see if we were there? Had he moved on, thinking we were further along the tunnel? Was he gone? Why was Sherlock so comfortable?

Damnit... I'm doing it again... inappropriate John, very inappropriate... but so is lying atop your flat-mate/colleague and not wanting to move off him. So much for ignoring this feeling right...

I lift my head slowly, very slowly; I'm half-afraid of seeing Sherlock's face and half-afraid of seeing the shooter pointing the gun at us both. My eyes search the tunnel, or what I can see of it, before they finally reach Sherlock's face. Oh his face... oh...

He looks... surprised... intense...  _lustful_... no that one can't be right... it can't... can it? He's Sherlock, he only gets that sort of look when he's got a new case or a new experiment to do; he doesn't look at me like that... or has he looked at me like that before and I've never noticed?

I can feel his hands around my waist, one of them is resting on the small of my back and the other is on my hip; it's like he's holding me to him, keeping me against him. Oh God... I want to be against him... I want- no! Stop doing that John! Bad bad!

He moves slightly underneath me,  _oh my God_   _Sherlock_... don't do that  _please_... I might regret my actions later on otherwise. I can feel his own hip pressing against mine, like we're aligned; ignoring the obvious height difference people, oh God... this feels so  _right_ , and I just want to press back and make him feel what I feel, I want him to know  _how_  I feel. I want him to reciprocate. I want to kiss him, but... I shouldn't... I wouldn't... I couldn't...

But that doesn't stop Sherlock; nothing much does after all.

Oh God yes... about time...

 

* * *

 

**(Sherlock's POV)**

Oh... you again... why are you even here and why do you think I'm going to waste my time explaining to you what I'm doing? Well...

We're running, me and John that is. We were following the murderer; John still thinks he's only a suspect since we have no 'evidence' but I mustn't get too annoyed with him, after all not everyone thinks on my level and though John thinks on a level higher than most it's still lower than mine; and that's not derogative at  _all_  is it?

I know John's behind me, only one or two steps since he is a fit and healthy man regardless of his leg; oh is he fit... Anyway, I know he's behind me and that he's copying my method of avoiding the precariously close bullets that are being fired in our general direction by our 'suspect'. I wonder; is this enough 'evidence' for John to believe me now?

I zigzag towards one of the small, side-tunnels that we passed on the way down here; there are quite a number of them so all I need to do is choose one that the murderer won't focus on. Not that difficult but I am running around and trying to make sure John is still running behind me without slowing down so it's a tad bit more difficult; and I'm  _not_ making excuses before you say  _any_ thing!

I've found the right tunnel so I focus on the door and head straight towards it, I know John is following; there's a slight change in the sound reverberation made by his shoes on the concrete floor that indicates he's moving closer to one of the curved edges of the tunnel. I launch myself at the door with more than enough force to open it but I'm in a hurry and I'm sort of preoccupied so excessive-force is justified by extenuating circumstances.

I spin around, abruptly stopping as I fully intend to slam the door shut just after John gets through only I'm not quick enough for an army-trained soldier; and especially not one who was literally a second ahead of being shot if that newly missing chunk in the door-frame is anything to go by.

John comes flying into the tunnel, into me, and I can't help but be overwhelmed by the sheer momentum; I feel as though I've had a run-in with an entire rugby team nevermind a single player. I don't know if John realises this but he's  _a lot_  stronger than he looks. It's almost arousing actually... alright, thinking such a thing when he's sprawled out on top of you is a less-than wise thing to do Sherlock. Do have some sense.

Oh! But sense is overrated and I've been  _having some sense_  for the last month or so and it's caused nothing but bother for me! I want John! I don't want to be sensible anymore! Sensible is for Mycroft, that's why he was the golden boy and I was the misfit! And I happen to like being the misfit! Stop seeing sense Damnit!

I've only just realised something; when we landed on the floor after our collision my hands have automatically found the most comfortable of spots on his body, almost as though they've slotted into place and am I poet or something because I'm not normally so... flowery and such with words... 'slotted into place...' please, it sounds much like what a teenage girl would write in her diary about her crush... but it fits in this matter so I might as well stick with it; afterall I do feel like a teenager when it comes to John. No-one else has the same capacity to elicit such hormonal and uncontrollable responses from me; no-one.

He's looking at me with a partially confused expression on his face; but there's something else in it something primal I think. Something that looks akin to the look I see in the mirror when I think of John in the mornings...  _lust_... I thought he wasn't interested in me? But then... why the lust?

There's a stone in my back; it's a viable excuse for what I'm about to do so hush, and I shift my body slightly. I'm still watching his face and he's still staring at mine; I can see that I've got a response from him and it's one that seems to be in my favour. He's responded positively; well, if that slight shake that ran throughout his body and the dilation of his pupils are anything to go by. What should I do?

He looks like he's fighting with himself, classic pro-and-con internal-conversation; I've had them many times whenever Mrs Hudson made off with the skull... blasted woman I do wish she'd leave him alone. It seems I've got to take the initiative here and- wait, isn't there a murderer somewhere around here? Oh yeah there is... but I can't hear him anymore and the door's swung over and is essentially closed now so I think the danger's passed.

But this opportune moment hasn't and I'm not going to let it pass too; not yet, not without a fight.

I shift again, this time more purposefully and I feel his entire body shake and he moves too; now I can feel him, all of him, against me and I want to grab his head and kiss him and bite him and do so many things to  _make him mine_  but my hands are sort of busy around his waist and I don't think they're all that inclined to move from such a lovely position.

He groans and I smile at him, a smile that finally shows what I'm feeling; everything, the lust, the want, the need, the love, the pure sexual-drive. All of it. And I know he can see it because it's returned I consciously drag one of my hands from around his waist up and grab the back of his head. I pull down and his head comes willingly closer to mine and I know I'm smiling so widely that I feel like my face is about to split in two but I really... really don't care about anything other than John and his lips that I can just about touch with my own.

Oh God... I've waited  _so long_  for this...

...So long...


	4. Oh dear, what's happening?

**(John's POV)**

I want him... oh dear God do I want him! And I'm getting closer and closer to amazing lips... that sprout out magic to wow fools and anger enemies... lips that are plush and red and bright against his pale and unmarred skin... lips that I really  _really_  want to kiss until they're swollen and even brighter than they are now...

But... there's a murderer around... he's been trying to kill us for the last half-hour... and we're in a small tunnel trapped in each other's arms and about to kiss... kiss... oh I want to kiss him... I really do... but... it's not safe here...

"Sherlock..." I'm panting from need, I really don't want to have to say this I  _really_  don't but, "We should get out of here..." oh God  _stop doing that_  Sherlock! Oh... hands! Hands hands!

Okay... wanting to get to safety isn't really a main priority anymore... nope... not one bit... Sherlock's my priority... oh yes, definitely my priority... but he's looking at me, he's not kissing me... damn! Stupid bloody army-brain...

He seems to be fighting with himself as much as I am but I think he's better at controlling himself than I am... in this respect at least because now I just want to take every bit of him I can reach...

"Alright John," he says quietly, but his voice... oh God his voice... I can feel myself trembling and now I'm resolutely promising retribution for Sherlock's voice... his voice Christ! How can his voice be so damn effective?

I want to say no, I want to tell him to keep going because I really don't think I can wait, or stop now, but he's Sherlock and now he's made his mind up because he thinks I've made mine up... he thinks I've changed my mind... stupid bloody dense genius!

"It's not..." I almost manage to say _ **"it's not you, it's me because I'm a paranoid git"**_ but I'm pretty sure the fact that Sherlock is lightly, at least I think it's lightly, pushing me off of him is distracting me more than I'll admit. He's not looking at me anymore, and his hands aren't on me now... he's moving away. No!

No! No! No! Damnit! Stupid goddamn paranoia! Stupid idiot John! So bloody stupid! Beyond stupid! He thinks you've rejected him! I'm a Goddamn bloody fuc-

"I think it's safe to leave now," Sherlock kind of cuts off my internal berating of myself and I think I want to hit him for that; I need to berate myself because I'm such an idiot. I want to apologise, I want to clarify but he won't look at me and I doubt he'll listen to me now that I 'rejected' him...

God I want to shoot something.

 

* * *

 

**(Sherlock's POV)**

Well, this is different I must admit to you, the fact that I'm discussing this with you and not focusing entirely on those ever approaching lips is somewhat annoying; but slightly reassuring since at least I'm not talking to myself in a manner that much befits a psychologically-unstable being. Perhaps I could carry out an experiment on the general reactions of society by testing out people's reactions to perceived insanity? It would certainly pass the time wouldn't it now?

But back to the present, back to John, oh John... John Watson lying atop of me in a dimly lit and probably dirty tunnel after having been shot at and chased for the last half-hour... John Watson who has a light layer of perspiration veiling his face but I doubt it's from running, just like I doubt my heavy breathing is from running around either... no I know indisputably what my heavy breathing is from; and its lying atop of me looking incredibly appealing. Insatiably so in fact.

My hand is still at the back of his neck, angling his head closer to mine and I can see the lust, the want and need in their gaze; oh that just makes me want him all the more. My eyes and mind are still analysing everything they see, my sense of smell is still breathing in his intoxicating scent which has for so long driven me almost insane, and my hands are tingling from prolonged contact with my own personal aphrodisiac...

I want to touch all of him, without the hindrance of these blasted clothes but even in my sexually-driven activity I know that it is a bad idea to shed clothing in such a dirty and unclean area; still doesn't want me from wanting to strip him though I must admit. It would be so easy as well; the belt he's wearing has one of those buckles that clips and means I can get it off him with one hand; the shirt he's wearing is buttoned and that's not at all a problem since buttons can always be sown back on; the jeans he's got on are those lose-style ones that you sometimes see skateboarders wear meaning they're only held on by the belt and we've already covered that haven't we; the coat isn't a problem since it's already open and can slip from his shoulders easily; but I wonder if he's wearing boxers?

He's not a briefs man, I've already discovered that when I went through his things early on in his tenancy at Baker Street, but I do wonder if he always wears boxers; or does he go commando sometimes? Hmm... Oh that's something I think I can spend a lot of time pondering...

One of my hands, the one that's currently free to roam John's body is currently doing just that. It runs along the length of John's back lighter than a feather and I can feel him shaking from it; so much desire, so much hesitance, so much emotion from him and it's so intoxicating to me. I feel like I'm giving into my drug-habit at long last except this drug breathes and has a scar on his left shoulder where he was shot.

"Sherlock," I hear him pant and I run my hand along his back again, from the base of his neck all the way down; down to the base of his coccyx, and now he moans a low and needy groan. He's panting and I'm sure that if my hand was lingering on his coccyx then he'd be glaring at me for being so evil... maybe he would want to get revenge for such an act? I hope so...

"We should get out of here..." he pants, his voice so low and deep, that for a moment I don't actually comprehend what he's actually said; his voice is far too distracting in itself. But I do realise what he's just said and I analyse it; I analyse everything but my feelings, these bloody emotions of mine, cloud my conclusions. They're bending my mind and making me assume and I don't do that... but I am and I'm inclined to believe these tainted assumptions more than ever.

My hands still and I stop bringing his face closer to mine, even though there's less than a centimetre between us both, and I feel his body calm slightly as his breathing comes under control; he's regaining his reasoning and I've almost taken advantage of him. I shouldn't have done this; I shouldn't have assumed that he wanted me. Who would want me? I'm a freak. He's not, he's normal and he's safe and he's desirable; why would he want such an oddity as me?

I'm a freak and now I'm a molester of friends... maybe I should be shot... maybe he should shoot me... I think I deserve it...

"Alright John," I manage to get out, it's all I can get out because I'm so close to him and I don't want to look at him in the eye, so I don't; I look away and I begin to carefully and lightly push him to the side so I can stand and run and hide away from him; away from my shame. I'm a monster... I should be shot.

"It's not-" he starts to say but I don't want to hear him, I don't want to listen to him now because he's going to say  _ **"It's not what I wanted... it was an accident I fell on you and you began to sexually-molest me you freak!"**_  I'm sure he will. I don't think I could handle hearing that from him, from my John... no! He's his own, he's not mine... he's not a possession; he doesn't want me and he doesn't belong to me! I don't belong to him either... but my heart's breaking at that conclusion. I want to be his, I want to be owned, I want to belong to someone, I want to be loved... but I'm the freak... I'm the one who can tell you who you've shagged in the morning... I'm the one who tears people apart because I see right through them... I'm the monster that hides under the bed of children and nips at them when they dare leave the safety and confines of their bed that's high up and safe... I'm worse than any serial killer... because my victims still have to live after I've broken them beyond repair.

I stand up, my legs feel weak but I ignore that and try to solidify them as best I can whilst my heart breaks. John's still on the ground but he's sitting up and he looks like he's getting himself under control; I won't be surprised if he hits me or worse when he's completely calm. I wouldn't hold it against him, no not at all.

I need to get my own control back quickly, before I give in and do everything to him that I think about all the time; but he'll hate me, he'll be afraid of me if I do so I need to stop these emotions from controlling me. I need to get my level-head back. I move away from him, even though I feel like I want to be closer to him, and I move over to the door; breathing heavily and hands shaking as I constantly tell myself, "control yourself, control yourself, control yourself, control yourself," and after a long, long moment that seems to me to have been a millennia my hands stop their shaking and my breathing returns to normal; my emotions, my feelings are thrown back in that compartment in my mind which lies next to the box containing my childhood. I am me again, but the lock on that box of emotions isn't as good as it was before I met John and little drips and drabs of feelings sneak out; but I can handle the drips and drabs better than the whole package.

"I think it's safe to leave now," I murmur as I poke my head out of the door and look to my left and see nothing so I turn to the right and spy nothing that would constitute as a threat; if you exclude one of those mutant rats that the council deny exist. A part of my mind briefly entertains the idea of capturing one and sending it to the home of the city's Mayor; it would certainly put the point to him directly wouldn't it now? But I've got a resentful man who I believe has just stood up, who is fuming mad and probably wants to hit me as well as shower, waiting for me to actually do something so I veto the rat-package plan and focus on the main focus of my current nosing about; the shooter is nowhere to be seen, which is quite a good thing since I think John would have no qualms about taking the gun off the shooter and probably shooting me.

I move through the door out into the main tunnel and began to head in the direction of the exit, not looking behind me since I can clearly hear John's footsteps behind me; though his footfalls are almost silent which I put down to him having been in the army. I don't hear anything else and I don't see or sense anything that is of any immediate danger to either of us as we reach the service staircase which we used to come down here in the first place. I turn around and see John standing about two steps away from me; much closer than I thought he'd stand since I'm a freak and such but I dismiss the idea that there's any hidden reason for the closeness, as I pull open the door, which I had to tug hard on since it seemed stuck for some reason, and allow John to go first.

He disappears into the small space and begins to ascend the staircase, quickly and efficiently, and I'm about to follow when my mind notices something that I should have noticed before; a scuff-mark by the door. I look at the other side of the open door and see the faint imprint of a foot and I realise that the reason the door was harder to open this time around was because someone wanted it to be harder to open.

John! He's up on the staircase and he doesn't know! No! He could be hurt because of my ignorance! No! No! JOHN! I quickly move into the small space and I'm about to shout out to him when something hits me hard on the back of my head; and does that hurt! I crumple and my mind goes blank and dark as I slip away from consciousness but the only think I can think as darkness takes hold is that at least John wasn't the target this time. At least John's safe since he's still running up the stairs and he won't be back down until he realises I'm not following; and by then I'll be gone with whoever's just given the hardest wallop of my life.

But at least John's safe...

 

* * *

 

**(John's POV)**

Sherlock's avoiding looking at me, I would too if I'd just been rejected; actually I think I'd want to hit whoever rejected me. But Sherlock's Sherlock and he won't do that; he'll go back to being his emotionally-reticent self and I'll end up being guilt-ridden for days, and I mean days since I'm not going to dare going near him since I think he might just devise an experiment to blow me up.

He's looking out of the door now and I avoid looking at him since he's sort of partially twisted so half of his body's out of the door and is bent down slightly; it makes for quite the look but I can't look at him now, not when he thinks I've rejected him. He'd probably freak more than he already is; but I can't be entirely sure of that since he's so damn good at hiding what he's feeling. Oh he's moving now;  _out_  of the door get your head out the gutter!

I follow behind him quickly and quietly, the lack of heavy boots and army-training means I'm far quieter than your average person when it comes to walking; and it probably helps that my psychosomatic limp doesn't exist at this present moment in time. Small mercies I suppose. He's moving along the tunnel, quietly too but his steps are louder than mine though not by much, and I know he knows I'm behind him since he's obviously listening for any sound out of the ordinary; and he's grown accustomed to the sound of my light steps over the weeks. Still I feel bad and guilty and I don't think trailing behind him like I'm stalking prey is all that reassuring for a recently rejected man; I don't even know if he's ever had a real relationship and I might have just been chucked in the pile of rejecters that have rejected him throughout his whole life. Oh man... I actually hate my brain and the fact that I'm over-thinking this right now you know? Of course you do, you know everything I'm thinking; stupid rhetorical question.

At long last we reach the service stairs and I notice that the door seems to be wedged; I move closer just encase Sherlock needs any help but he stops and looks back at me and I can tell that he's wondering about the fact that I'm what, two steps away from him. He looks away too quickly for me to see what's in his eyes and as he does I take a completely silent step back; I don't want to upset him or hurt him anymore than I've already done by being the stupid pratt even Harry calls me.

I watch as Sherlock tugs the door open and I can just see in my mind's eye the muscles in his arms tensing and flexing their strength as the door bends to the mighty power of Sherlock Holmes, and then I can see him slamming me against a wall and holding me there as he ravages me and- STOP IT JOHN! God damnit... I need to stop doing this... he thinks I've rejected him; he's not going to let me near him now so just  _stop_!

Sherlock opens the door fully and steps back so I can go through just as I stop my mind from joining you in the gutter, he's letting me go first, why? Maybe he doesn't want me behind him anymore? Maybe he's nervous when he can't see my every move? Maybe he's afraid I'll try something? Maybe... I don't know but I'm not going to do anything to question him or worry him further, so I dart through the door and begin to ascend the staircase up to the surface of London City.

My footfalls are louder on these stairs since they're metallic and I doubt even the quietist of soldiers could manage to get up these without making some sort of sound. I don't stop as I run up the steps, I don't stop and look back, I don't wait a moment to make sure I can hear Sherlock on the stairs as well. I just run and I keep running all the way up to the top where the door is closed and that's when I stop and turn around; fully expecting to see a still emotionally-reticent Sherlock behind me. But he's not there. And it's silent now that I'm not running on metallic steps.

I frown and walk to the edge of the staircase; looking down the centre of them right down to the base and I don't see Sherlock. No sight, no sign, absolutely nothing. It's like he's vanished and now I panic.

"Sherlock?" I call out my voice catching slightly as I wait for a response that I know deep down won't be coming. Oh God... Sherlock...

"SHERLOCK!"


	5. Watson, Captain Watson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra long

**(Narration)**

Though John would have much preferred to go back down into the tunnel system and search out Sherlock Holmes, and whatever stupid prick who had decided to take his friend, the unfortunate and annoying reality of life decided to rear its incredibly ugly head in the form of a Police Community Support Officer who had his head poking through the door looking at John as though he was a criminal; or a hoodie without a hood...

As a result of the frankly stupid looking fool who thought he was better than John because he had a pretty looking uniform; please, John's military uniform would have put this PCSOs to shame, John had no choice but to leave the staircase and enter the real world which wasn't all that real when Sherlock wasn't standing next to him. Because Sherlock wasn't up in the real world, he was down, down, down and he needed John's help.

When Mr-PCSO looked back into the staircase just encase anyone was hiding in the shadows of the solid walls John did something totally rash and he didn't even feel the need to hesitate as he bolted away from Mr-PCSO as fast as he possibly could; and since his psychosomatic limp didn't exist today and since he was a soldier, he was off down the street before the PCSO even had a chance to yell, "Oi!"

Not that he was all that concerned with the plastic-copper really, Sherlock and Sherlock alone was his main priority. Since there was only one entrance into the tunnel system on this side of town John had to accept the fact that he couldn't go back down and look for Sherlock by himself since he would no doubt get lost in the tunnels within five minutes. And so, reluctantly, he darted down the streets until he came to one of the many pubs and clubbing areas in London where there was a rank of cabbies waiting for him; thank God for the small mercies he supposed.

Quickly darting into one of the nearest black-hacks John told the cabbie to take him to Baker Street as he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile and scrolled down the list of numbers that he had saved, looking for one in particular. And there is was; sometimes the fact that Sherlock was such a lazy pain-in-the-arse when it came to phones was a good thing since every number in Sherlock's phonebook was on his phone meaning John didn't have to constantly use Sherlock's phone because the man couldn't be bothered sending a text. He blinked and stared at the number, briefly debating whether or not to call there and then, in the taxi whilst he was heading back to 221 b Baker Street. But he shelved the idea when the cabbie began to talk to him about pointless things and John just smiled and replied, "No, my girlfriend's just sent me a text telling me that her friend's gone into labour and I've been ordered to babysit."

Though it was a bare-faced lie it seemed that John's ability to lie effectively had greatly improved since he'd met Sherlock Holmes since his voice didn't reveal anything of what he was actually feeling; which mostly comprised of anger, annoyance and a great dosage of fear for the absent detective. The cabbie smiled back at him and pulled onto Baker Street and stopped outside 221 b as he said, "well I wish you luck mate, my kids were nightmares when they were younger."

John smirked and handed the cabbie a ten pound note, diving from the black-hack and saying, "keep the change," as he dived towards the front door of 221 b. As the taxi drove off John managed to thrust his key into the lock and open the door with enough force that it resulted in the actual door crashing into the wall, and probably leaving a crack in the wall, but John was too busy slamming the door shut and racing up the stairs to his and Sherlock's flat to really care about a wall.

He came to a sudden standstill in the middle of the chaotic room and took a deep, laboured breath as he tried to calm himself enough to ring the one number on his mobile that he actually didn't want on it; but this was a necessary evil and John was just going to have to suck it up and deal with that fact of life. He sighed and scrolled down to the number again, pausing momentarily as he moved across the room towards his chair, and hit the dial button. He reached down and searched behind the cushion whilst he held the phone up to his ear, waiting for the dial tone to be replaced with a voice, and when it was eventually answered he was straightening up gripping his British Army Browning L9A1 in a death-grip.

"Doctor Watson! To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?" the voice of one Mycroft Holmes sounded tinny on John's mobile but that wasn't his concern as John moved back across the room and looked out of the window.

"I need to talk to you, in person; Baker Street, you have ten minutes Mycroft," John said curtly in a tone that bore no argument, getting straight to the point and Mycroft could indeed tell that John was angry about something that was causing the doctor to revert back to his military training.

However, what John said next to Mycroft had an even greater effect than knowledge that there were leaks in the Governments security. Mycroft even paled slightly as John's words reverberated around Mycroft's dimly lit office, "Sherlock's been kidnapped."

 

* * *

 

**(John's POV)**

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK! ANSWER ME DAMNIT!" I screamed to the high heavens, or technically in this case it would be the depths of the stairwell, but I didn't get any response; Sherlock wasn't down there anymore, I'd left him behind. I'd abandoned him...

Do you know how it feels when you leave someone behind? When you knowingly leave someone behind? I do, I'm an ex-soldier, army-doctor extraordinaire, so of course I'm going to know; leaving men behind is called a tactical retreat but to me it's just abandoning a fellow brother-in-arms. Sherlock might not be military, I doubt he could ever learn discipline and to deal with the mundaneness of military life, but to me he's another brother; okay, so he's a bit more than that to me I admit but the thing that matters the most is the fact that I've left him and I shouldn't have. I should have stopped and waited, I should have let him go first, I should have explained why I told him to stop, I should find those bastards who've taken him and crush their heads into the pavement! Well... that might be a bit extreme but the way I feel right now kind of makes it a viable option.

I should run back down there and search him out, find him, save him, protect him, and I fully intend to but the doors just opened and one of those stupid goddamn torches is shining in my face; you know the ones you see in those cheesy horror-movies that the pretty blonde-bint is carrying around going,  _ **"hello... is anybody there..."**_  with the axe murderer standing behind her waving his bloodied axe around. And I'm not morbid at all am I?

"Hey, what are you doing in here then?" the owner of that damned torch asks and I can clearly detect the typical gruffness of a wannabe cop; so I've known a few in my time, so sue me. I really don't have time for this mate, can't you just shine that torch elsewhere before I shove it up your-

"Come on out then lad," did he just call me a lad? Who the hell does he think he is? A  _lad_? A lad! A lad is what you call a seventeen year-old joyriding pratt who doesn't know the indicator from the wind-screen wipers! I am  _not_  a lad.  
I took a moment to debate the options that have been left to me; one, I could run off down the stairs but mr-torchlight there will probably chase me and give the game away; or two, I can leave the stairwell and make a plan on how to save Sherlock. Yeah... option two seems much more appealing doesn't it now?

Well, then I guess my mind's made up. I step out of the stairwell, passing the wannabe cop and I realise that he actually is a wannabe; he's a PCSO, Police Community Support Officer. Oh my God! Of all the insults that life can conjure up for me this has got to take the cake! He looks all proud and important in that... uniform, that's his uniform oh God... that I think it'd break his heart, and his ego, if I was wearing my full military uniform; medals included. But I'm not on active service anymore so I can't really do that... though I can still dream can't I?

I stand just to the side of the door and watch as he shines his torch back into the stairwell, at the walls almost as if he expects someone to walk through them; seriously, who trains these guys! I am curious as to whether or not I should stand there and be silent or maybe make a sudden noise just to see what his reaction will be and- Oh God... I'm planning an experiment! Sherlock's really starting to rub off on me...

Sherlock... Sherlock! Crap! Damnit! I shouldn't be waiting for this hare-brained idiot to do his job, though I'm sure he does it admirably, I should be doing my job! I should be looking for Sherlock! Damnit... right, well then, I suppose I'm going to have to take the initiative then aren't I? Yes... yes indeed.

As the PCSO is still being a pratt looking in the stairwell I take my chance; in other words I run like there's a devil's hound on my heels and I'm it's only meal for a good couple of miles. I'm off, my feet hitting the tarmac of the road, before the PCSO can even spin around and shine his stupid torch after me. I've left him for dust and damn does it feel good!

I can just about hear him as I careen around the corner, I think he's shouting,  _ **"Oi!"**_  and isn't that just typical of a wannabe cop huh? I run and I run and dear God do I run, cutting through the alleys and dodging cars and cats and random people on the streets as I head towards an area I know has a couple of clubs; meaning that there are taxis there too. Some random person shouts at me but I don't hear what they say, it's probably just some random drunk shouting obscenities; which isn't all that uncommon nowadays is it? I spy a black-hack that hasn't got any intoxicated fools in it and dive through the door before anyone can claim it as their own.

The cabby looks at me and asks in a cheerful voice, and damn I hate him and his cheerful voice, "where to mate?" and it takes me a couple of seconds of heavy breathing to manage to get out Baker Street as my destination; damn I used to be fitter than this... looks like I need to do some more running, and not the running-for-your-life or running-after-a-bad-guy type of running either.

We're off and down the street, turning this way and that, before I manage to get my breath back fully and I slump against the seats as I pull my mobile from my pocket and begin to scroll down looking for a particular number. Since Sherlock has this tendency to either not bother with his own phone or to leave me to texting, ringing and so on I've taken to adding every single phone number on his mobile to my phonebook so I don't need to use his phone or ask him what the number is; I remember the way he reacted to my question when I'd had to ask him to repeat himself three times before I got the number right.

The one number that I've never really dared to call or even look at for more than a moment is now the one that my thumb's posed over, as though I'm about to press the red button to start world war three; and who knows, maybe by calling him I might just end up doing that. You never can tell with him afterall... I growl quietly and shove the phone back into my jacket pocket as I look up and see the cabby watching me in the rear-view mirror; and I curse to myself when the guy starts asking me questions and talking like crazy. Can't he just shut up and get me home, like I've paid him to do? Evidently not...

I don't want to talk all that much but when he asks me why I'm in such a hurry to get home,  _ **"no-one you know died have they?"**_  I realise that I'm going to have to give him some sort of answer or he'll get suspicious; who wouldn't if some guy dives into your taxi and orders you to take them home and then are silent as they glare a mobile?

I smile tightly and decide to go with the flow and tell a lie, I don't think he'd like the truth all that much so a lie's probably best, "No, my girlfriend's just sent me a text telling me that her friend's gone into labour and I've been ordered to babysit," I say, in my most effective and charming way and I really should stop learning from Sherlock... he's beyond a bad influence because this guy actually believes me!

"Well I wish you luck mate, my kids were nightmares when they were younger," is the reply I get from the densest cabby in London but I'm kind of thankful for that fact; if he weren't dense then he might have seen through my lie, it's not all that good a lie really is it? My with a friend in labour, please... the only friends I still have are male and one of them is missing!

We're turning into Baker Street and I slid across the seats so I can open the door and dive out in seconds, which I promptly do when he stops just outside 221 b. The last thing the guy hears from me as I shove a tenner into his hand is "keep the change" before I'm out of the hack and at the door, shoving my key in the lock and opening the door with enough force to crack the wall behind it.

But walls can be fixed with a good amount of plaster, Sherlock can't and Sherlock's more important so I run up the stairs, slamming the door behind me first, and run into the sitting area of our shared flat. I'm scrolling through my mobile as I stride over to the chair I sit in daily, looking for that number again, and I lean over and search underneath the cushions until I grip something metal which I pull out as I straighten up. I've got the number now and I hit the dial button, trying to ignore my hesitation because this is definitely a necessary evil; though Sherlock might argue that point with me, but Sherlock isn't here so necessary evil it is.

Five ring-rings later and a tiredly droll voice answers, sounding every bit as arrogantly patronising as you can sound on a phone, "Doctor Watson! To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?" and if I was any less of a man than I am I'm pretty sure I would have given the git one of the most snarky comebacks of all time; but I'm trying to be polite, emphasis on trying of course.

"I need to talk to you, in person; Baker Street, you have ten minutes Mycroft," I saw curtly and I can tell that all that military training that was drummed into me is still there and it's surfacing; making me be objective and organised and in control. I'm ordering Mycroft Holmes, a man who's even more arrogant than Sherlock, and I'm not even bothered about it.

Though I can tell that if I don't drop the bomb-shell on him now Mycroft will do his usual sarcasm-routine and I'll probably make a couple of threats that I may or may not carry through, so I decide pre-empt that by saying bluntly, "Sherlock's been kidnapped," before hanging up.

I think that'll have got his attention... don't you?

 

* * *

 

**(Mycroft's POV)**

Well, I must admit to you, whoever you are, that I technically shouldn't be discussing anything with a civilian but I do like a good gossip every now and then so here we are. My office of course, granted I technically don't have an office since I don't have an official job title but it's nice to have a room that you can designate your own from time to time isn't it? Of course it is!

Now, why am I here? Well that's simple, but classified I'm afraid so I'm not going to discuss it with anyone other than a corpse; you're not a corpse are you? No? Then I'd suggest you take the hint my dear. It's dimly lit in my office, which is a good thing really since I don't look all that good in florescent light; nor does Sherlock in my opinion but I can't criticise him because he does have a tendency to overreact. Why? I don't think I'll ever truly know but I do think it has something to do with the fact that I am smarter than him though he would vehemently argue this with you.

I sit down in my seat, revelling in the relaxing feeling of soft, plush leather when my mobile phone rings. Darn it, I do wonder who it is? And if it's anyone from the Russian Embassy- ahem. You're not meant to know that.

The caller ID is a great help as to help me figure out who it is, since not even my great deductive skills are any use when the numbers blocked, and I answer the call in my most cheery, patronising and arrogant voice that I can manage since I must keep up my reputation afterall, "Doctor Watson! To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?" so that I can go and graciously beat it incessantly for ruining my peace!

I do expect for the doctor to respond with a biting comment, one that would show that he has some intelligence, but what I get in response does make me pause in curiosity; and I must admit, dread, "I need to talk to you, in person; Baker Street, you have ten minutes Mycroft," well isn't this quite the development hmm?

From what I can gather Doctor Watson is slipping back into Captain Watson, soldier in the British Army, and the only reason for this that I can come up with is that something bad has happened to either him or Sherlock; but since Doctor, sorry, Captain Watson sounds like he's merely annoyed, angered and worried I'm guessing that Sherlock is the one who has received the less than fair side of the helpings of misfortune. I do wish Sherlock would choose another profession; I don't want to have to bury my brother you know?

Just as I am about to speak, ready to ask a myriad of questions, the next three words of Captain Watson before he hangs up have a greater affect upon me than any other words I have previously heard in my entire life, "Sherlock's been kidnapped."

I will find whoever has taken my brother and I will save him... and then I'll make whoever took him wish they'd never been a possibility in the life of their parents when I'm finished with them.

And then I'll let John Watson, not Doctor or Captain just John, have them.

 

* * *

 

**(Sherlock's POV)**

Oh... my head... this hurts... quite a lot... oh... this must be what it's like for stupid people; thinking  _hurts_... ow... I don't think I want to think right now... in fact I  _know_  I don't... but I think I have to... John once said something about concussions and the importance of staying awake; something else about comas too but I was thinking at the time so-

John... where's John? Why isn't he here to prod me and keep me awake? Why isn't he here? Is he safe? Is he hurt too?

John!  _John_! Oh... ow... thinking and panicking with a concussion isn't a good idea... no, not at all...

And there's the darkness... it's around the edges, picking at my conscious... trying to envelope me... but John needs me... I need to find John... but five minutes won't matter... not much at least... I'm guessing I was out for a good while anyway so five more minutes isn't going to be that much a stretch is it?

Don't answer that.

Sorry John... I don't think even I can help in my state... I'm talking to myself and expecting an answer... beyond crazy... oh the darkness has got me... it won't have me for long though... nothing ever does see...

 

* * *

 

**(Narration)**

Whilst John was pacing up and down the length of the sitting area in 221 b Baker street he was holding an internal conversation with himself on the pro's and con's of finding the creeps who'd taken Sherlock, his Sherlock, and possibly doing to them what the SAS do to their own; only there would be no end to the amount of agony, physical or psychological, that John would put them through until they were well and truly dead! On one hand it would be both gratifying and practical since it would make him feel less useless and remove the threat to Sherlock's safety. On the other hand it would also result in him feeling guilty about murdering, correction torturing, people to death even if they were kidnapping bastards and then he'd have to deal with the possible repercussions of the law. But that was why he'd called Mycroft of course; the brother who  _ **"occupies a minor position in the Government"**_  was the bloody Government and could do as he damn well pleased when he pleased!

It was nine minutes and forty-two seconds after John had hung up the phone on Mycroft when a sleek-looking black Mercedes-Benz Guardian S500 pulled up outside 221 b and John looked out of the window overlooking the road to see a familiar figure step out of the car and immediately stride up to the door of John and Sherlock's flat. Without any further preamble John shot down the stairs, still gripping his Browning L9A1 in his steel grip, and opened the door just as Mycroft raised a hand to knock on the door. If Mycroft was surprised by John's weapon he didn't show it and John didn't care as he moved aside and let Mycroft into the house; he closed the door quieter than he had the last time he'd opened it and didn't speak until he was back in the sitting area of the flat.

"I'm going to need your help to locate Sherlock and his captors," John said flatly as he spun on his heel, in such a military-ingrained manner that Mycroft briefly considered the notion that John might end up with whiplash, and pierced Mycroft with a look that just screamed,  _ **'argue-with-me-and-I'll-shoot-**_ you' and Mycroft chose to wisely to barely breath as John continued in his orders, "I'll also need some pretty heavy firepower but if push comes-to-shove then my handgun will have to do. You'll also need to keep the police away for as long as possible; I don't want them seeing Sherlock in whatever state he'll be in by the end of this."

"Of course Doctor Watson," Mycroft said simply, foregoing his usual pedantic behaviour as he chose to get to the matter and be part of the solution as opposed to the problem.

John nodded curtly and his grip tightened on the gun in his hand, one of his fingers caressing the safety in a manner that disturbed Mycroft no-end. He sighed and looked at Mycroft with a look upon his usually innocently ignorant features that he would always remember, as he said darkly, "I'll also need your help in dealing with those responsible for this entire mess; if you're willing."

It was a statement really, and the politeness on the end of it was moreso because an ingrained response rather than genuine politeness and Mycroft, being as intelligent as his younger brother, tactfully decided to go with the flow of one Captain Watson; because Doctor Watson and plain John weren't in at the moment and probably wouldn't be in for a little while, "Of course Doctor, or should I call you Captain?" he enquired, deciding to inject a snippet of his usual sarcasm.

"Whatever gets you to do as I say Mycroft," John replied bluntly as he smirked evilly at Mycroft before his features morphed from a dark intensity to the more familiar polite-innocence, "I'm worried about him Mycroft and whatever you can do will be greatly appreciated by me and Sherlock; though he won't admit it."

"I doubt my brother will ever appreciate anything I do for him Doctor, Anthea will have sorted out the details of this plan of yours," Mycroft said airily before pausing and looking at John with a raised eyebrow, "you do have a plan don't you?"

John blinked and nodded curtly, Captain Watson was back as was the slightly terrifying look on his face, "Yes. Sherlock had his mobile with him; right pocket on silent, and you've got access to the necessary communications-monitoring technology I need to be able to find his location. Then I'm going to go in there and neutralise every threat to his safety, remove him from the danger-zone and return him to safety; i.e. here," John finished abruptly and Mycroft had the fleeting thought that John Watson would have been good to have on one of his infiltration teams; the man's got balls and intelligence, though not of the same calibre as his and Sherlock's but intelligence all-the-same.

Sherlock was the one who was good with crimes, Mycroft was good with politics and the subtly of it all, and it seemed that John Watson was the one who was good with the militaristic characteristics that both of the professions of the Holmes brother's often included. Maybe when this was all sorted out Mycroft could convince John to join the team infiltrating the Iraqi terrorist groups... he would certainly be useful out in the midst of the war-zone, but he doubted that John would go; and he also doubted Sherlock wouldn't kill him for sending his John out to be shot.

And he was kind of fond of John Watson himself.

 

* * *

 

**(John's POV)**

I want to shoot something, correction someone, several people in a straight line with a sign above their heads reading  _ **'we-kidnapped-and-beat-Sherlock-Holmes-up'**_  would bypass any guilt or hesitance over their demise; of that I can assure you. But technically I can't waste bullets on the walls, though I'd sorely love to do so, it's just I don't have an infinite amount of bullets; even though Sherlock seems to think differently. I mean, only last week I found him taking my bullets apart because he needed gunpowder... I was planning on shooting him then I can tell you, but Lestrade had come by with a case; small mercies otherwise there might have been an obituary in the newspaper. I can actually imagine what it would have said, well sort of;  _ **"In Memory Of Sherlock Holmes; Beloved Pain-In-The-Arse, His Experiments Will Not Be Missed. Childish Brother of Mycroft (Who Occupies A Minor Position In The Government Only), Friend (If That's A Remotely Viable Term To Apply) To One John Watson, And Nightmare For All Criminals In London City, And Everyone Else For That Matter. He Will Be Missed... Sort Of..."**_  it would be ironically funny really and I obviously need some sleep if I'm thinking this stuff...

Where is Mycroft? You'd think the ponce would be here straight away since it's his brother that I called him about wouldn't you? Well... I guess I shouldn't be surprised; those two are the way they are and normal doesn't apply to them, it can't be applied to them actually. They are who they are and I have to live with that just as much as they do themselves; if they're a nightmare for me then I guess I'm a nightmare for them aren't I? What with my simple thinking and ignorant behaviour and all...

If I were the same man I'd been five years ago I don't think I'd have been as agitated as this; but five years ago I was on a team, second-in-command and treating soldiers with their innards hanging out so... I guess it's all relative, like your perspective changes over time; I know what I mean, shut up. If I was the same man I used to be then I would have been waiting patiently for an order from someone higher up in the ranks than me, someone who had priority and leadership skills; leadership skills! Don't make me laugh and accidentally shoot the wall, the safety's off afterall. I had leadership skills, I just didn't flaunt them like most of those go-boys, and there's a difference between leadership skills and rash arrogance; arrogance is more likely to get you and your unit killed, real leading isn't. I think the reason why I was never one for being the leader is the guilt you feel when someone dies after you've told them to go right instead of left, check that room instead of this one, stand-down instead of retreat. I don't like guilt, I don't think anyone does really, but I'm feeling guilty now and dear God is it one hell of a motivator!

I feel guilt over rejecting Sherlock, I feel guilt over going up those stairs first, I feel guilt over leaving him behind, I feel guilt because he'll have probably woke up now and be scared and alone and I'm not the there to rescue him... damn I hate guilt right now.

There's a Mercedes Guardian S500 that's just pulled up outside, I bet you that's Mycroft; the guy drives around in bullet-proof cars like he's some sort of politician. Maybe he is, maybe he's the secret-Prime Minister and everyone's too blind to that because Cameron's running around with the baby brother twin Clegg distorting everyone's views and opinions on the world? Damn that's a really scary thought...

I'm off down the stairs and I'm at the door before the man can even knock, I think I jumped from the top of the stairs to the bottom to be honest, and I just know he's surprised but I'm not overly concerned with how he's feeling at the moment; getting Sherlock back is my priority not Mycroft's feelings. I let him inside, one step to the left and there's enough room for him to squeeze though, and I can see Anthea sitting in the car; at least I can see the silhouette of a woman in the car and I'm guessing, hoping, that it's Anthea or whatever she calls herself nowadays. The doors shut quieter than before but still enough to echo throughout the hall and I sprint up the stairs with Mycroft following; only he doesn't sprint, no he's too posh and arrogant for that, he waltz's up the stairs. Arrogant git.

"I'm going to need your help to locate Sherlock and his captors," I say in a flat and monotonous voice; I can't let my feelings play into this anymore, I need to act like the solider I am inside and think of this like any other military strike, even if it's going to be me against the bad-guys and the man I love, yes love, held against his will who I'm rescuing. I still can't give in to what I'm feeling, I'd be of no-use to anyone if I do, "I'll also need some pretty heavy firepower but if push come-to-shove then my handgun will have to do," well I've managed to shoot a crazy taxi-driver with it from a good hundred yards, taking out a few dozen men will be no problem; yeah right, "You'll also need to keep the police away for as long as possible; I don't want them seeing Sherlock in whatever state he'll be in by the end of this," and I speak from experience about that; you never want to see the looks of pity, loathing, disappointment, hatred on the faces of others when you live and someone else dies, when you're hurt a bit and someone else is dead. It's not nice, not nice at all.

I can see Mycroft debating whether or not to argue with me and I swear to the high heavens that if he does I'll shoot him in the patella; the knee. But it seems that that thought has been conveyed to him by the look on my face and he's wisely chosen to respond with an affirmative, "Of course Doctor Watson."

Doctor Watson, Doctor, I don't feel like a doctor right now; I feel more like Sweeny Todd probably did in that musical-film with that actor, Johnny-something. Barber becomes butcher becomes murderer, doctor becomes soldier becomes very-pissed-off-and-vengeful; yeah I can see some resemblance there...

"I'll also need your help in dealing with those responsible for this entire mess," yeah, like an unused and abandoned factory and lots of sharp, pointy things and a cocktail of drugs, "if you're willing," I add to my rather dark and foreboding statement in an effort to be, or at least sound, polite; old habits die hard and my politeness has long-since been ingrained in me since I was a kid, family expects a young child to be polite an-all...

Mycroft looks like he's amused by my attempt at politeness; well I could always be chillingly cold and give him a look that'll give him nightmares couldn't I? Of course I could and his answer calms me a little, "Of course Doctor, or should I call you Captain?" and amuses me of course.

How should I respond to that? Sarcasm? Annoyance? A fit of uncontrollable, slightly hysterical laughter? No, I think I'll just respond with a witty, "Whatever gets you to do as I say Mycroft," you're getting owned right now mate, sorry... not really.

There's this feeling inside of me and now I feel it pulling and tugging at the ropes I've tied it up with, it wants to be free and I can't let it free because it'll ruin everything and then I'll lose Sherlock, and I can't risk that; but I can show that I'm feeling it to some degree, you know instead of looking like I should audition for the part of the crazy axe-murderer in a horror, "I'm worried about him Mycroft and whatever you can do will be greatly appreciated by me and Sherlock; though he won't admit it," I'm sincere with this, I mean what I say; including Sherlock's lack of appreciation.

"I doubt my brother will ever appreciate anything I do for him Doctor," is Mycroft's response and if I wasn't so agitated inside then I'd probably think more of the sadness in his voice, "Anthea will have sorted out the details of this plan of yours," he pauses and looks at me with a raised eyebrow and I just know what he's about to say, "you do have a plan don't you?"

A Plan? This is my plan! This! You here! Me ordering you about! That was actually the extent of my coherently formed plan, the rest is more we'll-blow-up-that-locked-down-when-we-reach-it really. But I think I should probably come up with a plan right? Yeah... plans are a good thing to have to some degree; well here we go, "Yes. Sherlock had his mobile with him; right pocket on silent, and you've got access to the necessary communications-monitoring technology I need to be able to find his location. Then I'm going to go there and neutralise every threat to his safety, remove him from the danger-zone and return him to safety; i.e. here," it sounds like a pretty straight-forward plan and I'm not inclined to go into any more detail since I actually need the required information before I can make a definitive decision on the best course of action; but neutralising every one of those bastards is so, so appealing that it's hard to ignore the almost primal urge to shoot them. Though if one of them goes for a gun or Sherlock then they're beyond screwed; they'll have to deal with me.


	6. John Watson is BAMF and you'd best not forget it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MOAR!

**(Narration – Sherlock)**

He didn't like feeling like this, he didn't like  _feeling_  actually, but he liked this even less. His hands were twisted behind his back attached to the back of the wooden chair he was sitting in with what felt like steel wire; it certainly bit into his wrists sharply enough for him to guess what it was, why couldn't it have been handcuffs, or rope? He could get out of a set of handcuffs relatively easily and rope was easier still, but it seemed that the two brainless lumps of flesh knew something of restraining a person; especially since they seemed to be in the business of getting answers. Fantastic, he was going to be tortured by these two lummoxes', all they needed to do was leave him alone for twenty minutes or so and he'd probably be begging for something to do; his intelligence and insatiable need to do something wasn't always the best thing to have when you've been kidnapped. John would do so much better in this position he was sure; John had patience... and training.

Of course John would be able to handle this, he was able to compartmentalise, mostly, so he would be able to hide away his pain and such about such an event as this but Sherlock wasn't all that good at compartmentalising; he was better at absolute denial in that respect. Whereas John would talk about this occasionally and show how much it affects him Sherlock would hide away from it, avoid it and tear someone's head off if they tried to push him; which even Sherlock knew wasn't exactly a good thing for the psyche but that was the way he dealt with things. He'd be able to handle the questions, the idiots and such but the one thing he wouldn't be able to handle would be the pain which he just knew they wanted to inflict upon him; he couldn't handle pain like everyone else. Pain was something you felt, you didn't think it you didn't rationalise it, you just felt... and he wasn't so good at feeling.

"You should open your eyes," a gruff voice, that of a smoker's obviously due to the slight wheeze and nasally quality of it, growled in his left ear and he couldn't stop his instinctive reaction to open his eyes and shy away; but he didn't do instinctive he did logical, he thought first acted after. Instinct wasn't him but right now it was because now his thinking, his brain wouldn't account for much; experience and natural understanding of danger was what he needed and so instinct was now his teacher.

The room he was in was brightly lit and it hurt his sensitive eyes more than it should, but he couldn't close his eyes again because seeing was much more important; so he settled for squinting and waited for his eyes to adapt to the harsh lighting. Concrete walls that were sweating indicating he was somewhere damp and underground, but not deeply because he could hear with his hyper-sensitive hearing traffic speeding by; so he was in a tunnel or a house that had a cellar. Since he'd been taken in the service tunnels he guessed they were in one of the many offshoots and that was confirmed by the single notice on the wall that gave him a general location; he was in one of the rooms that were next to the transformers that supplied power to the underground rails, which meant they'd taken him no more than a mile or two from the service stairwell he'd been about to ascend when they caught him out. The ground is that typical dirt of the tunnel system and tells me that I'm in one of the older sections of the tunnels, which ties in with the room-next-to-the-transformers-idea, and he knows that his blood, when it begins to flow freely, will turn the murky brown to a sticky black; which he is not looking forward to that is for sure.

"Oh... he's tryin' to figure out where he is," the gruff voice mocks him and he turns his attention to the two fools, who granted are a lot more imposing and daunting since he's tied up, who are smirking at him maliciously, "well, I can save you the trouble if you want?"

He shouldn't, he really shouldn't because he just knows what's going to happen the moment he opens his mouth; words will flow out that will serve to annoy and antagonise them but he's Sherlock Holmes and he's never been one to back down from anything. Apart from John when he's had no sleep for three days and he's muttering about various ways he can kill him with a pen spring, "no thank you. I don't need simple fools to inform me of anything since I doubt your minds could even begin to comprehend the merest of things."

They're silent for a moment and the smirks slip away, replaced with pungent, ugly glares and he tries to prepare himself, he tries to tell himself to not antagonise the idiots when tied up but it's pointless because he smiles smugly at them and, before he can even analyse it, there's a fist impacting with his face hard enough to throw his head to the other side and for stars to dance about dangerously in his eyes.

It hurts, naturally so, and he can't think for a moment or two whilst his brain tries to regain control over the millions of neurons that are inundating his brain with electrical signal after electrical signal telling him the same thing over and over; 'OW! OW! OW! OW!' but just as he manages to start to think of something other than the pain, a new wave comes crashing down upon the first sensory overload from another fist landing itself rather painfully in his abdomen and he's sure he might be either whimpering or gasping in pain but the blood is pounding in his heart and sounds like a cacophony of waves in his ears blocking out everything else as the pain entwines itself in his mind and tethers itself with no intention of letting go anytime soon.

It feels like an age to him before the pain passes, before the fists stop making their presence known rather painfully upon him, and it feels like it's even longer before he can open his eyes and see without black spots flickering about warningly. They're both standing closer now looking flushed and excited, powerful and domineering, as though causing him pain is self-gratifying to both of them; and somewhere in the back of his mind that hasn't been infected with pain he rationalises that it probably is gratifying for the two simpletons which makes him feel worse because he knows, he just knows, that it's going to be a long night full of pain.

And he wished John was with him, wishes John would just come strolling through the door he can see out of the corner of his left eye and shoot these two... bullies point-blank and then take him home, because he wants to go home, he wants to get out of here, he wants to be safe in Baker Street, he wants to be safe in John's presence, in his arms... but he knows John won't find him anytime soon because John isn't him and John can't put the clues together like he does; he knows this and he knows that John, like everyone else, is stupid compared to him and it means pain is going to his constant companion for the next few hours. But it doesn't stop the part of him that's still feeling from wanting John to be here now, to save him because he wants to be saved right now. He really does.

 

* * *

 

**(Narration - John)**

John watched in tense silence as Mycroft walked briskly over to his car and noticed out of the corner of his eye another car, which looked to be the same make and model as Mycroft's own, pull up behind it and the driver quickly get out and move to sit in the front next to the driver of Mycroft's car. He was confused but he didn't comment or consider what the purpose of the car was for until Mycroft, just as he was about to climb into his car, turned and looked at John pointedly and said, "a gift for your challenge doctor; I do expect it to be in one piece when I return tomorrow."

He nodded and replied, "I'm sure it'll be fine, though I can't say for certain how I'll be in the morning," his eyes held Mycroft's own with an intense purpose that he hoped the other Holmes brother was able to pick up as well as Sherlock did, and it seemed that Mycroft could indeed understand the meaning behind the words; he wasn't worried about his own condition because he doubted he'd be significantly injured tonight, but Sherlock might be and John was worried about the condition he'd find his friend, his... something, in. It was a concern that Mycroft seemed to share and the older Holmes sibling nodded in understanding as he stepped into his car and closed the door as the sleek night-crawler crept away into the darkness of the night.

John knew that Mycroft would be at Baker Street in the morning with medical supplies, and if necessary, a private doctor that would probably get paid enough to never speak of Sherlock's condition with anyone other than Mycroft and John himself. It was small reassurance for him though because he first needed to rescue Sherlock before anything could truly be done about recovery, if there was still a Sherlock to recover; no, he shouldn't consider that notion! Sherlock Holmes would not die today nor will he ever die so long as John could be there to prevent it, and he would be there; he would be there, come what may.

Shaking himself out of the reverie he'd pulled himself into his military training retook control and he moved stealthily over to the remaining Mercedes Guardian S500, opening the driver's side door and swiping the keys off the dashboard before moving to have a look at the back of the car; which made his eyebrows rise in surprise at what he found. There was enough ordinance on the backseats for him to be able to wage a man-man war against probably half of the mafia or something along those lines; M-16 assault rifles were poking out rather noticeably of a pile of various weapons that John had been taught how to strip-down, clean, rebuild, fire and reload in the army, it actually made him wonder just how powerful Mycroft really was, but that thought was shoved aside as more important military-based thoughts began to convalesce and develop. He quickly gripped the black uniform, special ops eat your heart out, and the Kevlar-plated vest from the back seat, as well as the single silver case on the floor, before shutting the door and locking the car. He then swiftly made his way back into 221 b Baker Street and up the stairs into the sitting area; his main priority was the silver case which held the communications equipment necessary to track Sherlock down.

Quickly depositing the uniform and vest on the sofa he placed the case down on the small desk and flicked the clip-locks open and lifted the lid to reveal one of the most advanced pieces of equipment known to the Spooks. But he didn't have time to stand there and admire its design, he needed to find Sherlock's location and quickly, so he set it all up and inputted Sherlock's mobile number as well as a general area to focus on; the tunnel system that they'd been in when this whole fiasco started, and set it to search for Sherlock's location as he grabbed the uniform and hurried into the bathroom to change quickly and efficiently in the same manner that he'd been trained to do in the army.

By the time he'd changed into the black uniform and put on the Kevlar vest he looked like an entirely different man; he was no longer John Watson or Doctor Watson, heck he wasn't even his regular Captain Watson, now he was just a nameless faceless soldier who had one mission and no limitations to how he was to complete that mission. He was for all intents and purposes a special operations man and he wasn't to fail in anything; including this rescue. He strode back into the sitting area and looked at the open case where the LED screen was showing a single red blinking dot on a green-based map of London and he looked at the coordinates as well as the depth of the signal; he discovered that Sherlock was only a mile and half from where he'd last seen him and still at roughly the same depth as the tunnel system.

Quickly and efficiently he closed the lid of the case, relocked it, turned the television on so as to make it seem like someone was still in Baker Street, and swiftly made his way down the stairs; stopping momentarily to listen to see whether or not Mrs Hudson had stirred at some point but it seemed the woman was sleeping deeply, and he hurried out of the house and over to the car. He placed the case on the front passenger seat and climbed into the driver's seat, started the ignition and pulled away from the kerb; heading towards Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

**(Narration – Sherlock)**

The concept of torture wasn't entirely lost on Sherlock but he had never truly seen the appeal of causing another person pain merely because it was fun, in the pursuit of an answer then yes it was practical to use, but what these two bullies were doing to him did not constitute as necessary; it was almost recreational for them and it made Sherlock seriously consider the psyche of the human population. Of course he'd always known that some people hurt others because they were naturally malicious and chose to cause pain because they felt it or knew no different but it still didn't make this any easier on him; in all his years he'd never actually been hurt to such a degree as this and all he could do was feel it, he couldn't fight it, he couldn't stop it, he couldn't control it and it did more damage to him than the pain itself because he had no power here now, none at all.

They were talking to him, asking questions here and there, but it was mostly the taunts his mind allowed him to grasp, allowed him to make any sense of and he cursed his brain for it; the questions were important, what they were asking him and why, not the way those taunts made him feel, they didn't matter to him but if they didn't matter why were the impacts of the words on par with the impacts of the fists? Why did the words gouge their way into his guts and twist like a sharp, burning knife slicing and cutting and scarring? It didn't make any sense! It wasn't supposed to...

"Pathetic loser!"

"Not worth any of this!"

"Worthless bastard!"

"Crying baby!"

They didn't stop, they didn't cease but his will did; he didn't want to hear them he didn't want to listen but he wasn't slipping away into the darkness that was creeping and swirling around the edges of his consciousness, it had neither the strength nor it seemed the inclination to allow him any reprieve from such hurt, from such pain that words caused within him. He felt pathetic, he felt like this was pointless, like he was pointless, worthless, he was crying and begging for them to stop it, to be quiet, to leave him alone, to let him die, to give him a rest, but they were entertained by his agony. He just wanted to be left alone, left alone to die in the dark, in the damp, underneath the real world, he didn't care he just wanted it to stop, he wanted to stop feeling things he never wanted to feel.

"Piss off..." was the only words he managed to spit out of his bloodied mouth before something new entered the equation, no fists anymore it seemed that they didn't do as much damage as they wished for them, no what they chose was something Sherlock wanted to scream at and shout at and tell them to go hang but that wouldn't work because they would enjoy seeing his fear; and see it they did, "no!"

He couldn't breathe, his airway was cut-off and he tried to gasp and strain his arms instinctively but that only served to cut the skin on his wrists as the steel wire cut and bit away, blood flowing from the new wounds. He arched his body desperately seeking air as his lungs screamed in panic and his brain became more and more muddled from lack of oxygen, but somewhere he dimly registered the flowing of blood from around the thin piece of steel wire sliced into the soft flesh of his throat. And the black oblivion that had been hanging about the fringes of his agonised conscious began to creep closer and closer, blocking out the pain and awareness until he was almost free of the conscious world when everything suddenly came back in full force and his gasped reflexively as the wire was removed from around his neck. Heavy, laboured breathes was all he could hear along with the pounding of the blood in his ears for a few moments before his awareness was extended to the rest of his body and the room as his hair was grabbed in a rough, calloused hand and his head jerked back with enough force to rip a croaky cry of pain from his abused throat.

"Time to finish this I think..." the one he'd identified as the leader of the pair said darkly, his breath hot and putrid on his face, as his other hand reached out to grasp his chin hard enough to cause tears of pain to appear in his eyes making the monsters face blurry and discern, "but I want a little bit of fun first," the way he said the words made Sherlock want to shiver and he tried to pull his head away but the grip in his hair tightened to the point where he felt some hair follicles rip from his scalp but he didn't care, he just wanted to be as far away from this creature as possible.

"Go check everything, I want to move out as quickly as possible; the boss should be in his car waiting," the man said to his companion who nodded dutifully and left the room quickly, too quickly and Sherlock's natural deductive skills caused his mind to go into overdrive as to find a reason why the other man left the room so fast and his mind supplied him all sorts of possible theories that would never have bothered him before now but in such an instinctive and emotional state his mind's theories caused him more and more distress.

He tried to rag his head away again, taking the opportunity presented by the man's attention on the door, and succeeded in freeing his head from the man's grip; but not for long. His hair was once again grasped and his head thrust back so far that he shouted out in pain as the muscles in his neck stretched beyond their usual limit, he could see the man's snarling face now and he wanted to shy away, wanted to close his eyes and hide from it, but he couldn't look away and he couldn't move; fear had frozen him and he felt terrified as the man's other hand snapped around his throat squeezing relatively tightly. The man moved in close to his face and whispered dangerously into his ear, "time for some fun," and the hand around his throat tightened into an iron grip and his airway was again cut off his arms once again strained against their bindings and more blood flowed from the open wounds on his wrists.

And then the worst thing to have happened to him thus far, in his opinion, occurred as the man's mouth clamped over his own and he felt so violated, so dirty that he wanted to scream and fight but he couldn't do anything other than take it as the man's grip on his throat tightened even more and on reflex he opened his mouth to try and draw in a breath, and instead ended up with the man's tongue diving into his mouth and dominating him.

His sight began to dim, his heart began to slow, and his brain began to quieten as conscious truly began to slip away when suddenly the man's grip on his throat was gone, when the man's hand in his hair disappeared, when the man's mouth on his own was gone. His rapidly restarting mind, feeding greedily on the oxygen rich air he now had full access to, acknowledged a cracking sound that reminded him of his riding crop on the plastic body-bags in the mortuary.

And the hand in his hair was back and he flinched expecting pain, but the pain never came, the violation of a mouth over his own never happened and the iron-tight grip on his throat wasn't there. But his eyes, which had closed as consciousness had began to slip away, remained closed for fear that this was some sort of twisted trick; until a soft voice said worriedly, "Sherlock... Sherlock can you hear me?"

And there in front of him, a hand in his hair and the other stroking his cheek, was John bloody Watson.

 

* * *

**(John's POV)**

I know it's kind of hard to believe but I'm not the nicest guy you'll ever meet, especially down a dark alley in the middle of the night, sure I act nice and I'm polite but believe me when I say that if you ever do anything that can offend or hurt me or anyone I know then you're better off taking a swan-dive off the nearest building; seriously. When I was in the army, before I got shot and packaged back to the UK, I was one of the most powerful guys at our base; essentially I was second-in-command and for good reason too. My shot could rival a snipers regardless of what was going on, my patience could last for decades when dealing with the natives, my anger could be unleashed when required on the battlefield and I rarely missed any target whether they were stationary or running for the hills. I was ruthless but kind to my men, destructive but respectful of civilians; in essence I was the worst nightmare that life could conjure up for the insurgents, especially when you factored in the fact that my men tended to follow me with as much determination as I had myself. That's why these guys, these fools who have taken Sherlock are going to regret ever thinking that kidnapping a sociopathic genius was a good idea; heck they're not going to live long to regret their actions but I'm sure I'll be able to get the point across rather effectively don't you?

These  _toys_  that Mycroft's given me are going to be very, very useful when I burst in there, guns blazing and fire snapping out of my hands like little snippets of my intense anger. Although technically I going to make use of the training I received before I went into Afghanistan, before I was thrust back into the regular folds of the everyday British Army; I'm going to put the training from the SAS into practise and you'll probably feel sorry for those poor bastards in there because I'm not a nice guy when the SAS training is pulled onto the battlefield. Still, it'll send all those idiots out there a message to not kidnap Sherlock when I'm around won't it?

I would normally use a standard assault rifle in these situations, back in Afghanistan of course, but since Mycroft was kind enough to equip me with so much ordinance it's only fair of me to use something I know I'm not going to miss with; and the only weapon I've never missed a single target, paper and flesh included, is the L119A1 commonly known as the C8 SFW Carbine. Definitely a gun I like because of its compactness and its magazine is a standard 30 bullets but that's fine because I doubt I'm going to use half of them; unless I'm feeling particularly vindictive of course.

I've traced the signal to this... secret hideout of this gang and I've got to say that if it'd been in the middle of an office block then I might have had a problem walking up carrying a couple of firearms and explosives, nothing major mind you, and politely blowing them away. However, the tunnel system is quiet, deserted and means no-one will be around to hear the one-man war I'm about to wage; lucky for me, not so lucky for the kidnappers. I can disappear inside through the secondary staircase, not too far from the tube, that's only used during emergencies and this is definitely an emergency, and I can sneak right up to them without them even realising just how close they are to death until I'm in front of their faces, smiling and giving them a makeover. And I don't sound just a little bit unhinged at all do I people?

It's dark in these tunnels you know, I mean really, really dark, the kind of dark that requires a super-powerful torch or one of those archaic flamed-torches that you see in those Indiana Jones films; not that I've watched any of them recently of course. I can barely see my hand in front of me, the emergency lighting here obvious doesn't work which is just so typical, and I'm pretty certain that if it weren't for the night-vision goggles that I'm currently wearing I'd have walked into one of the walls by now; and though that sounds kind of funny I'm not exaggerating. Anyway, the ground isn't the most preferred for covert infiltration but it could have been worse; it could have been tile or gravel, as it is it's only a mixture of dirt and chippings. My shoes don't make that much noise when I step and they're not leaving that much of a print so I don't think anyone's going to catch me out just yet; that SAS training is useful for some things I can assure you, like when you need to sneak past a sleeping Sherlock in the middle of the sitting room because he's literally collapsed there after not having slept for nearly four whole days, or when you need to remove from his grip a jar of some toxic or flammable liquid that he's using as a teddy bear. Like I said, useful.

There's the door that will lead me to Sherlock, my poor infuriating Sherlock, and the twits who took him, my stupid idiotic kidnappers; there's one of the goons at the door and doesn't he just look stupid standing there in the dark without so much as a torch, pratt. Well not that much of a pratt since he's holding an AK-74 in his hands, and it trying to look imposing; who's he going to be imposing to, the ground? God really stupid; one shot and he's out, between the eyes, less than a second between me squeezing the trigger and the bullet landing smack-bang in the middle of his ignorant forehead. It takes me two or three seconds to cross the tunnel from the other side and inch the door open quietly and carefully.

Bright lights, no more night-vision for me not if I want my retinas to still work after this because damn is that bright! Still the same type of flooring but the walls are newer, more like the 20th century rather than the 19th and I'm half thankful for that; the walls don't curve upwards meaning I'm in no danger of ricochets hitting me but there's sharp corners and it's all the same drab grey colour so I'm definitely going to stand out dressed in black. Well I can't have everything in life going my way, can I? Sure wish I could though.

The signal's gettin stronger the further I walk along the corridor, although technically when you walk your feet make a sound on the floor and it's your entire foot that hits the ground, what I'm doing right now is more like a dance-routine; balls of my feet, soft and light like feathers on a harp. The signal doesn't blink, the little dot that is Sherlock's phone doesn't flash and I know that the room I'm standing outside is the one I'm after because my Sherlock's in there, my Sherlock. But I can't open the door because I can hear someone coming, walking back this way and I'll be damned if I get caught between two adversaries on different sides; then I'll probably end up with another scar to remind me that bullets hurt. I retreat back the way I've come, pausing at one of the intersecting corridors and I step around the little corner and watch silently, ready for anything, as another twit appears at the other end of the corridor. He's alone and seems to be unarmed, well he's not milling about with a rifle but it doesn't mean he isn't packing; because Sherlock might have the genius ability to deduce what part of the ocean your watery-ancestors came from but I have the ingrained ability to know whether someone is or isn't armed and this guy definitely has something on him. Probably a hand-gun judging by the slight bulge in his jacket pocket; small calibre, amateur but not a beginner in this profession, smaller the calibre the less mess there is to clean up, or step in accidentally. I tap the wall with my gloved hand, loud enough to draw his attention just before he's about to open the door into the room the signal's telling me Sherlock's in, and I move out swiftly from the wall, L119A1 raised and aiming directly at his head, between his eyes; I'm just waiting for the micro-second it takes for this guy to go to pull his gun and that's when I fire, damn near point-blank into his head and he falls back, but I'm already moving and I don't care for a corpse; he's no threat to me now, apart from if I trip over him of course.

I grab the door handle and open it, it's swinging open by the time I've got my hand back on my weapon, and I move into the room firing a single shot at the man who's gripping Sherlock and is strangling him! Strangling  _my_  Sherlock!  _My_  Sherlock... the bastard. He's lucky I'm more concerned about Sherlock because I promise I would have made him  _bleed_ before he took his last breath...

"Sherlock?" I ask worriedly, not bothering to check to see if the bastard's dead because I never miss; I can feel the natural doctor in me trying to take over and assess Sherlock as he is now but I can't let go of my training yet because I'm pretty sure I'll end up searching out ever single member of this network and giving them very painful journey's into the afterlife. I can tend to Sherlock when he's out of here, when he's safe and no-one can break or burn or punch or cut him anymore. And so with that I lean down next to him, letting go of my weapon and lifting up his head; one of my hands automatically carding through his slightly damp and bloodied hair, "Sherlock can you hear me?"

And he opens his eyes and looks at me, I mean really  _looks_ , not the kind of look he gives me when I ask a stupid question, not the kind of look he gives me when I'm debating on whether or not I'd get away with murdering Anderson or Donovan, not the kind of look he gives me when Mycroft makes a suggestive comment to me. No, this look... it's so _raw_... so desperate and hesitant that I'm not sure I'll ever see it on his face again because there's so much  _emotion_  in it; I can see  _him_ , the real, deeply-hidden, well-veiled him that I don't think I was ever meant to see. He's almost looking at me like I'm about to fade away and disappear, like he's imagining me, but he doesn't know how that's possible because he doesn't imagine things; he knows facts, he sees truth, he does not hallucinate and he sure as hell isn't doing so now! I smile at him and say gently, softly, reassuringly, "it's me Sherlock, it's me," and I quickly use my free hand to pull out the pair of wire cutters in my third left vest pocket and I cut the wires that are restraining him, restraining my mad genius, my Sherlock, and his hands aren't moving; it's like he doesn't know he's free though I know that he can no longer feel the biting wire cutting into his ivory-white skin, but I think he's scared of moving or blinking or breathing and finding that this is a dream to him. Well I'm no dream and he's not living in one right now.

"Come on Sherlock, we've got to get out of here mate," I say quietly but firmly and I gently place a hand on his shoulder, trying to hide the worry, anger and hurt I feel when he flinches; oh if I find one of these bastards still alive then I'm going to make them beg me for mercy for what they've done to him tonight. I gently slip an arm around him and I lift him bodily up out of the chair and instinctively he reaches out for something to steady himself when his legs almost give out; and his own arms are slipping around my waist and he's holding onto me for dear life. My breath catches and I feel my body responding but I don't care because I can see him staring at me, looking at me and if this damned gun wasn't hanging from my vest and blocking us from being completely in touch then I'm not sure what would happen; but that gun's half my saviour and half my nightmare because it's the only thing that's keeping my mind on the matter at hand, namely the fact that I'm meant to be rescuing Sherlock not seducing him.

"Come on, we need to leave now," I saw lowly, my voice has deepened and I know it's because of desire, lust, but I can't give into that; not here and not with Sherlock in the state he's in, my wants and needs will have to wait and wait they bloody shall!

He's weak and it's hard for him to walk without my help so I resign myself to being his walking stick and bodyguard because there's no way anyone's going to be touching him again tonight except for me. We manage to get out of the corridor and into the tunnel without incident but something's are just too good to last as a bullet whizzes past my ear and embeds itself in the wall behind us. I instinctively shove me and Sherlock sideways, down onto the ground; I roll us and make sure that I'm on top of him when we stop, I'm the protector here and he's not getting shot on my watch. I fire back, quick, fast, effective and the two who were firing at us aren't firing anymore; they're not doing much of anything anymore actually. I haul myself up and then Sherlock who's shaking and looks like he's had a tumble down a sand-dune and it makes me ache to reach out and try to tidy him up because he looks so adorable in the meek light pouring out of the corridor into the tunnel. He glares at me and I smirk because that's the Sherlock I know coming through, not the emotional and hurt and afraid man I saw back in that room; this is my Sherlock and it makes me happy that he can still glare at me as he always does when I've done something particularly stupid or predictable.

I help him back along the corridor, stopping when he needs to rest and pausing whenever I hear a suspicious sound, but we reach the car without further incident which is all well and good because I really wouldn't have been that against shooting someone in the knee-caps.

The drive to Baker Street is silent as I focus half my attention on the road and the other half on the man curled up in the front seat next to me shivering slightly and I know he's going into the early stages of shock; who'd have thought huh, Sherlock Holmes going into shock? I want to talk to him, occupy his mind, divert his thoughts but I don't know what to say, I'm still stuck on the damn-near insatiable urge to shoot everyone and anyone who has any inkling to hurt Sherlock so I know any words I say now will be tinged with anger or hatred or worry and he doesn't need, he doesn't want any of that. I want to reach out and let him grip my hand, grip it so tightly as though it's his only lifeline, grip it tight enough so that he knows I'm real that this is real and he's safe, he's not going to be hurt again, but we're in London and this city seems to have at least one-fifth of the mad driver's that inhabit the world because I'm almost having to utilise the same driving techniques we used in Afghanistan and that's saying something!

By the time I pull up outside 221 b he's looking at me, like he's in a half-daze and is fighting to come out of it and to see the world so he can say  _ **"dull"**_  and then complain about the missing skull or his dead mobile, but he's still silent and I'm worried why he hasn't said anything yet; what's made him go mute? And oh God, they haven't taken his tongue out have they? No... calm down, they wouldn't have done that; there would have been too much blood, you would have seen a muscle the length of your forearm lying about, and he'd have blood, lots of blood in his mouth, it just wouldn't stop pouring, wouldn't stop dripping out, and he wouldn't stop choking on it and you wouldn't have been able to save him, you wouldn't have-

The light's on up in our flat, I turned them off before I left leaving only the TV on so who's up there? It could be Mrs Hudson but I doubt it, she's normally well-asleep by now and I don't think much would wake her after she's taken one of her herbal soothers. So who else? Of course, Mycroft! He would be up there now, sitting on the sofa, or in my chair more likely, tapping his umbrella lightly on the floor waiting for my return with his brother. Well, who am I to keep the arrogant sod waiting?

I get out of the car and I notice, just after I close the door and step around to the other side of the car, that Sherlock's starting to panic since I'm not next to him and I open his door swiftly saying gently, "I'm here Sherlock, I'm here come on," and I help him out, trying not to show my hurt and worry as he flinches at my every touch; I know he's hating this, hating his reaction to my touch but I understand it more than most and I can't, I won't, begrudge him this instinctive response to any stimulus that can be associated with danger and pain. It's only natural.

It's slow and laborious for the pair of us to get to the front door of 221 b and for me to fish out the key from the fourth vest pocket on the right, but I open the door carefully and quietly just encase Mrs Hudson's awake or something; we manage to make it up to the sitting area of the flat before Sherlock's legs finally give up the ghost and what little strength he had originally flees him suddenly and I'm one-hundred percent positive that if Mycroft hadn't opened the door at that precise moment and dived out to grasp his brother then I would have dropped the considerable weight of one Sherlock Holmes rather unceremoniously on the floor.

"Help me get him to my room," I say to Mycroft as we manage support Sherlock between us and I can see him raising an eyebrow at me and I clarify, "his room has sharp, pointy and probably poisonous things in it; I think my rooms safer don't you?"

"Of course," is his response and I want to hit him because damnit he sounds like Sherlock when he knows something that none of us mere mortals does and it makes my heart twist painfully because Sherlock's unconscious and injured and  _bleeding_. I bit my tongue and together we manage the next flight of stairs up to my room where we place him on my bed as carefully as we can before I dart downstairs and grab my medical kit, I notice several things on the sofa which I recognise as being medical supplies so I grab them to, because the more the merrier, and I shove Mycroft out of my way when I get back upstairs and I discard all the stuff on the bed next to Sherlock.

I check his pulse, check his pupil response and I check his breathing; finding them all relatively within the norm apart from his pulse which is faster than usual and I know he's in pain because there's a lot of cuts and bruises that I can now clearly see in the light of my bedside lamp. Mycroft's hovering about behind me and I want to tell him to buzz off but another pair of hands might be useful so I ignore his irritating existence in favour of slicing off Sherlock's bloodied and cut shirt which was irreparable anyway; I focus on the injuries, the bruises, the cuts and not on how seeing such damage to his skin, to his person, makes me feel because then I'll just go out and pick a fight with anybody. I hear Mycroft gasp quietly behind me and somewhere in the back of my mind the true-doctor, the one that isn't tainted by war, the one that's still an F1, is telling me that it isn't such a good idea for a relative to see you working on a patient but I tell it to shove off if it's not going to give me any helpful advice. Quickly and efficiently I clean the cuts and bandage Sherlock's chest, asking Mycroft to carefully prop his brother up so I can wind the large bandage around the thin man's bruised torso; I don't think he's broken or cracked anything but I want to be certain so I'm not taking the risk and leaving it to fate. Next I move onto his face which is a real bloodied mess and now I want to go on a homicidal rage because this, this is something I never wanted to have to do with Sherlock; I never wanted to have to treat him, fix him up, like I did with injured, dying soldiers. It's not as bad as it looks but it's still bad enough; cut above his eyebrow, black eye, bruised jaw and cheekbone, split-lip and a rather nasty looking graze on his temple.

I quickly sort out an injection of a sedative mixed with a painkiller and I pointedly ignore Mycroft's look as I inject it into the unconscious form of a man who looks more like a young boy when asleep and injured and it makes me want to hurt someone, anyone, because he looks so innocent and vulnerable and it's so evil to hurt him. I clean up the mess I made with the gauze and the empty bandage wrappers before carefully covering Sherlock with the duvet cover and motioning for Mycroft to leave the room. Out in the sitting room I bin the wrappers and put the kettle on, placing two cups on the side and dropping a tea-bag in each of them; much like I'd do for me and Sherlock at this time of night when he's woke me up with one of his insane experiments only, this time it's Mycroft who's getting the second cup not Sherlock. I'm not sure whether or not Mycroft takes sugar or milk and I should probably ask him but I don't care, I don't want to talk, I don't want to act like everything's okay, I want to break something, I want to shout and I want to scream and I want to make someone pay and-

"John?"

And I stop because Mycroft doesn't call me John, he calls me Doctor or Captain, he does not call me John. First names are too personal for him, too close, too intimate but he's using my first name now and I don't understand why. Why is he even here? Why isn't he out there somewhere carrying out a shady deal to secure power for whatever government or political party? Why is he here?

"John I think you should sit down," he sounds weary, concerned but weary and I wonder why that is; what's he looking at that's making him weary? What's making him weary? Oh... me. I'm making him weary, but why would I make someone with such power as Mycroft Holmes weary? I feel a hand lightly grasp my elbow and there's such an overwhelming need to shake off the grip, to hit and smack and hurt whoever dares touch me, but it's Mycroft and I shouldn't do that to him so I don't even though I really want to. He steers me away from the kitchen, away from the kettle, and into the sitting area where he helps me sit down gently into my chair; my chair and I'm waiting for Sherlock to sit in his chair opposite me but Sherlock's injured and Sherlock's upstairs in my bed sleeping because he's been hurt.

I don't know what's going on, I don't get anything anymore and it's all going hazy and for one single moment I think I'm going crazy but there's someone around me, someone... Mycroft... and he's watching me I can tell... and I'm sure I'm asking about the kettle, I'm sure I'm saying something about someone needing to make a cup of tea and I'm sure he's trying to comfort me, to tell me it's alright but it's not alright! Sherlock's hurt and I'm... I'm... what am I doing here? Why aren't I doing anything? And I must have said that out-loud because I'm sure Mycroft just told me that I've done everything I can tonight, but what does that mean? What have I done?

And it's gettin fuzzy, nothing's distinct anymore, there's no light and no dark it's all just a swirling mix and it's making me dizzy and I feel like I'm plummeting from a skyscraper, plummeting down without a parachute, without a helping hand, and the grounds coming too fast because there's so much noise in my head and I can't think, I can't breathe and I fall down, I fall down like London Bridge is falling down...

Falling down...

London Bridge is falling down...

Just like John Watson...

Me...

And then there's nothing but black.


	7. Finally the Goods!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it's nearly over!

**(John's POV)**

Ohhh... my head... ohhh my shoulder... ohhh- can I smell scrambled egg? Huh? What? I'm not cooking them and it can't be Sherlock can it? No... the man only knows how to blow food up not cook it! So... who's cooking then? Mrs Hudson? No, the not-your-housekeeper-thing kind of rules her out. And why have I got this God-awful crick in my neck? Late night hunting the bad guys or has Sherlock melted my bed with some random bloody acid?

Wait... Sherlock... now something's stirring in my head; I can feel like nipping away at my senses and- SHIT! SHERLOCK!

I sit bolt upright in my chair and blink stupidly, it's bright and the windows aren't covered so there is external illumination in the sitting area; it's kind of weird actually, Sherlock seems to enjoy letting as little light from outside into our flat as humanly possible. You'd think he was scared that the daylight would melt him or something! Anyway, it's strange that it's so bright in here and it's hurting my eyes but I'm not going to close them or cover my face because that could get me killed, or worse; I mean, what if there's a hostile in the flat? What if they've made up this rouse so as to relax and confuse me and then they're going to strike when I least expect it? And I'm obviously not paranoid at all am I?

Slowly I lever myself out of my chair, making sure that my feet make as little friction on the rug as possible and that my movements are deliberate and precise; no sense in wasting energy not long after waking up afterall. The smell of scrambled eggs is strong and coming from the kitchen; I haven't had scrambled eggs since before shipping out to Afghanistan and God does that smell amazing. There's also this quiet sound just audible over the sound of the egg frying, and if I'm not mistaken; which since I've not long woken up I could well be, is humming. Humming? Really? In Baker Street? I must be in an alternate reality or something.

Actually... I think I'm going to put emphasis on the something right now because what I'm looking at is just wrong in so many ways that I might just end up clawing my eyes out. I can just about handle Sherlock and his eccentricities but this... this takes the cake!

Sherlock would love to see this but- Sherlock's injured. Sherlock's hurt and I'm standing here gawping at this spectacle! God what's wrong with me! I tear my eyes away from what I can barely believe I'm seeing and quickly scuttle towards the door and up the stairs towards my bedroom because I can dimly recall putting Sherlock to sleep in my bed because my bed's clean and neat and doesn't have decomposing creatures on it; at least, I don't think it does.

When I reach my bedroom door I can't help but pause nervously, I don't know if it's because I know Sherlock's hurt or if it's because of the fact that Sherlock's in my room; and I think my priorities are just a little bit messed up if I can't even sort out what I'm feeling at this point.

But just because I'm worried about what I'll find when I open the door won't stop me, a hardened military-doctor, from opening said door; afterall, it's only a piece of wood with a handle right? Wrong. It's a symbol, a God-damn annoying bloody symbol of an eternal divide between me and so many different possibilities between myself and Sherlock. It's a bloody symbol of all the problems and divides I've put between myself and what I wanted. It's a bloody door that I'm going to open regardless of whatever my feelings on the subject may be because it's time I stopped being compliant and a chicken. Time I stepped up.

 

* * *

 

**(Sherlock's POV)**

This is awful. Absolutely awful. Pain is irrelevant and pointless and... painful. I don't like it. I really don't like it. It's quite the inconsequential thing, hardly worthy of merit, yet when you feel it, it has this inherent ability to override every basic thought-process you happen to have; which, needless to say for someone such as myself is not good. I don't know how some people can enjoy feeling this level of pain, why they strive for it by getting into brawls and wrestling matches; not to mention the more recreational and sexually based uses of pain also. I'm not adverse to it because in some cases, certain particular cases, it can work to one's advantage; pain is quite an effective stimulus depending on how strong it is, much like most other addictions I suppose.

I'm not entirely sure where I am if I'm honest, I recall that... room and that beastly man but much of what came after that is mixed and hazy; if I didn't know myself as well as I do I would actually deduce that I went into shock at some point last night. It's the middle of the day now; probably just past noon if the soft echo of Big Ben is anything to go by, and I can't help but want to move. I'm injured, which I can point out to even the most dense of people, but I'm bored. Incredibly bored.

And scared. Incredibly scared too.

My right arm is rather painful and I can see out of the corner of my eye bandages on it and I'm guessing if I could manage to lift my head up enough, then I'd see similar bandages on my left arm as well as my torso. All expertly wrapped; neat, precise, and just tight enough. I know whose done it, there's only one person I know who has the necessary skill to be so exact with this... and he's standing outside the door if I'm not mistaken.

Soft, light footfalls were what I heard, but they had that familiarity that I experience in regards to anything to do with John. The lightness of the footfalls came as a bit of a surprise to me, but I do know that John has been trained in stealth tactics; I suppose that those pieces of ingrained training have come to the fore and thus he is being more like a soldier weary of his surroundings and less like a doctor comfortable in his own home. How strange.

I do wonder why he hasn't entered yet and I'm still not one hundred percent certain where I am; but I have got an inkling. The deduction's simple really but in my defense pain is very distracting for me; you can't ignore pain like you can hunger or the requirement of sleep. You can't combat pain because every move you make creates more pain so the exertion in finding pain-relief seems like too much bother. Oh how I suddenly miss the times when all I had to worry about was John force-feeding me during a case; I'm relatively sure he would have done so as well. Perhaps I could perform an experiment of sorts based on that?

There's a single set of Chester-draws in this rather small room, the room isn't the size of a prison cell but it is much smaller than my own, which from what I can tell contains only basic clothing since there's a thin layer of dust settling on the last three draws; so someone lives here who doesn't have many belongings and is neat and organised with whatever they do own. The bed I'm on from what I can gather was originally perfect; the bedding made perfectly, crisp and angled, which leads me to the idea that someone from a military background is the inhabitant of this room. And if none of that was enough of a give-away for me the rather noticeable jumper folded up on the top of the Chester-draws just seals the deal.

I am in John Watson's bedroom.

Oh dear... perhaps I shouldn't have deduced where I was... my mind is all a flutter with some less than pure thoughts about John and this bed...

I close my eyes as these... fantasies I suppose you'd call them, are conjured up and so I miss the door opening almost silently; in fact I wouldn't have known the door had opened had it not been for a single creaking floorboard situated directly in front of the door. Thank God for those floorboards. My eyes snap open and I know my face is flushed, which is a rarity for me due to my rather pale complexion, but I'm not overly concerned about me right now; no, the short man standing just inside the room is what has my concern.

He looks awful, as though he's had a rough couple of days; which I suppose he has really, what with my kidnapping and all. There are bags under his eyes which tells me he's not been sleeping properly, his left shoulder is all tensed up which tells me that he's recently fell asleep in a rather uncomfortable position, and his left hand is as steady as a rock so that means he's still in his own unique version of a fight-or-flight response.

He smiles at me though, crookedly and there's something there, hidden beneath it that I can't discern from this distance; and the dim lighting in the room isn't really helping either, but... if I were to hazard a guess, and I never do such a thing since I'm Sherlock Holmes, I would say that what I was seeing in John's smile, in his eyes... was wanton lust...

How very interesting.

 

* * *

 

**(Mycroft's POV)**

I do wonder if the good doctor thinks I didn't notice him waking up; it wouldn't entirely surprise me if he does think that since his concern isn't with me right now. No. Sherlock is the priority for the doctor; and rightly so. My brother does so often need a carer, a friend, a lover even. Though I'm quite sure both Sherlock and John would protest immensely at the designation of carer and lover; though I do wonder which one they'd be against moreso.

If I recall correctly the last time I ever cooked was not long after I turned twenty, since then it's mostly been restaurants and personal chefs who have supplied me with sustenance; but that doesn't mean the concept of cooking is lost on me. Mummy did so love baking cakes, and muffins, and other things with chocolate on them... alas, nothing seems to compare to mummy's baking skills. Not even some of the most famous bakers hold a candle to mummy. Scrambled eggs I suppose doesn't entirely constitute as cooking though does it? It's quite a simple, basic and straightforward thing to prepare; well, it's supposed to be but Sherlock always could make something more difficult than what it really was.

I wonder whether John's opened the door to his bedroom yet, or if he's still standing before it staring at it as though it holds all the answers to the questions he's been asking himself these past few weeks. The irony of that of course if that the door holds no answers, but what is behind the door however most definitely does.

Ah! He's entered now, the tell-tale sound of a single creaking floorboard is loud enough for me to hear as I turn the ring off on the over and move the pan over in order to let the scrambled egg cool. I hope this goes well; I would hate to have made this breakfast for them in vain.

I'll give them a few minutes before I go up and interrupt. And I'm fully expecting, hoping really, to be glared at but reluctantly thanked then unceremoniously kicked out whilst they resolve their little problem. I've never known a pair like them really; even my own brother, who is a handful in himself, is dwarfed by his would-be lover, I've read Doctor Watson's file afterall. The term handful doesn't even begin to cover what John Watson is; he's a blasted PR nightmare with everything he knows and has done in the past.

Oddly enough that seems to make him the perfect partner for my brother. How very interesting...

 

* * *

 

**(John's POV)**

I think I've suddenly developed an allergy of metal because this door handle feels like its burning my skin; bubbling and boiling it, making it itchy and hot and- okay John shut up about the handle and just open the blasted door! It's kind of ironic really isn't it? The fact that I'm outside my own room feeling absolutely and completely utterly conflicted as to whether or not I should go in; but I guess the fact that my hand's turned the handle and is sort of half-way between opening the door and slamming it shut again means I've got to follow through. Afterall, I'm a soldier, I can't let something as tedious as emotions get the better of me can I?

Don't answer that. Seriously, don't.

Oh God... he's just... he's just there... lying there... on my bed, my bed... stop it John! Think with the brain not with anything else! Is he breathing? Oh God he's not breathing! He's- wait... his chests moving, it just doesn't look like it... bloody skinny buggar needs some meat on his bones.

You know; once you ignore the fact that he looks like he's not actually breathing, and the fact that he looks like he's been dragged through a couple dozen hedges, he actually looks so adorable and cute that I can't help but smile at him. It's so rare to see him looking like this, really it is, that I don't want him to open his eyes and become as animated as he usually is; only I guess as much as I don't want him to open his eyes-

Oh fuck... he's staring at me and I'm smiling at him... God his eyes... I could drown in them you know, I seriously could...

He's doing that staring thing of his, where he just stares but it still feels like he's seeing right through you; but it's different somehow, he's not dissecting me, not deducting how I'm feeling, he's just staring at me. The real me that is always on show; heck even some of the lads at Scotland Yard have noticed what he didn't! What I didn't either to be honest.

There's this sort of coiling feeling in my lower gut, almost as though my intestines were curling up and twisting around themselves; but it's hot, hot and impassioned too so I don't think it's my guts... I take two steps into the room and freeze when Sherlock moves, it's only slight, it's only minute, but oh God! Because he hasn't got a shirt on, only the bandages I wrapped around him, I can see his shoulders, his arms and his neck... oh how I want to bite and lick and suck that pale, unmarred flesh!

"How are you feeling?" I ask and if my voice is a little higher than usual and a little horse too, then it's because I'm coming down with something, and I'm sticking to that so buggar off.

He's still staring at me but I think I can see something in his gaze, something I've seen there before; before this whole nightmare started and no I don't mean the whole 'moving in with Sherlock' which Donovan seems to think is the nightmare. God... he... still... he still-

"Do you have to start the blazingly obvious John? Really?" Sherlock's voice cut off my thought and, to me at least, it sounded deeper; his lovely baritone of a voice was darker than I'd ever heard it before and the fact that he's in my bed and oh God, what I wouldn't give to be able to join him in it!

"It's called manners Sherlock, maybe you've heard of them?" I reply, my voice sounding more like usual including the healthy dose of sarcasm; Sherlock might be the King of sarcasm but he uses it so often that it's normal for him, me however... well I much prefer my dry sarcasm to his normally offensive patronisation.

He snorts in amusement at me but winces too and my doctor-instincts instantly come to the fore; so that's how I kind of end up sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, frowning and placing a hand on his shoulder. Funny how you can react to something instinctively and actually not realise it until after you've done it; I wonder if Sherlock's ever had that happen to him. He is human afterall; regardless of how many times he likes to argue that he isn't, he has a heart-beat, lungs and is made of carbon, i.e. he's human to me.

I feel it as he tenses up and for a moment I think it's because I'm touching one of his many bruises but the shoulder my hand's on doesn't have any bruises on it; it's perfectly undamaged skin so it takes me a moment to realise that it's not my actual hand he's reacting to but- but, uh, the sensations it... elicits...

Oh God... now my hand's tingling... as it my- STOP THAT! YOU'RE A DOCTOR FOR GOD'S SAKE MAN! ACT IT!

Deep calming breaths, that's the way to get through this, deep calming breaths; just ignore the fluttering in your stomach, it's just because you're hungry; ignore the way your hands are all hot and sweaty, it's just because you're in a warmer room than before; ignore the way Sherlock's looking at you with those lust-filled eyes, it's just that he wants to kiss you and-

And he does... can't ignore that now can I?

 

* * *

 

**(Sherlock's POV)**

Did you know that staring at someone isn't considered a social nicety; it's far more polite to avert your eyes when you feel the gaze of the one you're observing, drowning in, on you. I guess I'm not too much of a fan of social nicety right now because it can go and buggar itself on the street corner for all I care; I'm not going to stop staring, drowning, into those eyes! No. Way.

It's probably a lot like being burned alive; it's like your skin's bubbling and becoming like waxen plastic in a mould. It's like you're being burned on the insides by the super-heated air which dives inside of you and makes its agonising presence known rather effectively; turning your lungs to rice paper and your throat to charred meat. It sounds rather unappealing I know, but if you exclude the obvious pain you'd naturally feel then you've pinned down exactly how I feel whilst looking... whilst drowning in his eyes and burning in the passion of them.

It's all rather tragically poetic but I'm not inclined to be all that against it really since it seems that the strange affiliation poetry has with romance, or should I say love, is inherently accurate at this present moment in time. I do wonder when he'll move though, it's getting a little bit uncomfortable to be propping myself up on this arm; I wonder if he feels like this with his shoulder sometimes. It wouldn't surprise me.

He's smiling at me and I don't think he's entirely aware of the fact, either that or he's genuinely happy to see me; oh Heavens I hope that that's it! I really do. He's only about two steps into the room and already I feel as though the ambient temperature has risen to over 500 degrees Kelvin; and for you stupid people that's about 227 degrees Celsius. I'm burning alive and I must admit that I quite like the sensation.

"How are you feeling?" he asks me, is his voice higher than usual? A little rawer too? Interesting... except the question that he's asked me. I can't honestly answer him with an 'absolutely awful John but now that you're hear I feel better than ever' can I? That's rhetorical by the way.

Since I can't answer as honestly as that I'll do the next best thing; deflect and insult. Yes... very smart thing to do with the person you're infatuated with isn't it? "Do you have to state the blazingly obvious John? Really," oh dear, my voice is deeper now; it must be the effects of having slept in an actual bed as opposed to the on the sofa that's affected it so. Yes, it must... it has to be... for my sanity's sake... he doesn't love me after all... but God do I want him!

I can remember what happened in the tunnels now, before the whole escapade of getting kidnapped; honestly I don't know how he manages with the amount of times he's been kidnapped. I recall how he resented my advances, I shouldn't have done that! How foolish of me! How stupid! How... pedestrian...

I nearly lost him just because I couldn't control myself! Idiot! Fool! You absolutely waste of-

"It's called manners Sherlock, maybe you've heard of them?" hold on, he's teasing me; after everything I've done, after I accosted him he's still hear. More than that infact, he rescued me, he tended to my wounds and now he's asking how I am... I don't deserve him... I truly don't...

I can't help it, apparently that's becoming quite the trend as of late; not being able to help myself, and I snort at his dry-sarcasm. Of course, laughing in any manner requires the chest muscles to constrict and mine are quite... sensitive at the moment; and not in a good way so it really does hurt quite a bit. I wince and I know he notices it; though I may be the deductive genius he is the doctor who, given enough time and... ah, stimulation... may be able to rival my mind one day. He's not as stupid as he believes; or as I sometimes, occasionally, often, imply.

He's sitting down next to me before I even have a chance to blink, his hand is on my shoulder and it feels like I'm about to ignite it's so hot right now. I tense automatically; not because it hurts because all the pain's just ebbing away being replaced by this all encompassing heat, but because his hand on my shoulder is causing my gut to twist, turn and boil like a pan of heating water on a stove.

I think he's realised what it is I'm feeling right now, I can see the recognition in his eyes and I'm waiting for the disgust to follow; I'm waiting for him to jump away and run away, just like anyone would do, exactly what any sane person would do...

But I've done it again haven't I? I've placed John on par with all those fools that pass Baker Street everyday, all those idiots that look but don't see, that hear but don't listen! John is, never has been, and never will be, as predictable, as pedestrian as them so why am I surprised to see lust not disgust in his eyes; open want that I don't think he's aware he's showing...

Buggar this dancing about each other, buggar to these feelings of insecurity and buggar to these stupid thoughts! I close the, surprisingly rather small, gap between us and as my lips come into contact with his it's like I'm witnessing the beginning and the end of everything...

And it's absolutely divine.

 

* * *

 

**(Mycroft's POV)**

Well, I've given them three minutes and forty-two seconds to sort things out between them; I do believe it's time for me to interrupt at such an inappropriate time. Indeed it is most definitely time. Sherlock is injured after all and I'm quite sure Doctor Watson isn't feeling all that good either; there's only so much excitement even a man such as he can take before exhaustion gets the better of him.

I do wonder as to what the actual reception to my interference will be once I ascend these blasted stairs; and I should probably try and convince Sherlock to move out of this wretched flat! Anyway, do you think they'll be in the throes of... romantic passion and not notice my presence until I make it known? Or will they be holding one another in a loving embrace? And I most likely shouldn't be discussing such possibilities with you should I? No, definitely not.

Well, either they are both suddenly, gloriously deaf or they're not paying attention to the sounds my shoes are making on this atrocious floor; somehow the latter sounds far more likely, unfortunately. It would probably be most prudent of myself to knock on the door or something to that effect but I can't actually take my hand away from the tray so I suppose I'll have to... oh dear... what can I do precisely?

Now this wasn't something I'd expected, wasn't something I'd predicted and well, so much for being intelligent I suppose; do not inform Sherlock that I said that or I will have you locked away for a very long time.

There's nowhere for me to place this tray, though personally I don't consider it to be a tray since it's only made of polyethylene as opposed to silver-ware; heavens mummy would be so appalled. I can't exactly place it on the ground since it looks as though a person has bled out here; though since this is Sherlock's home I suppose that it's entirely plausible to think such a thing has occurred. There's nowhere for me to put it, unfortunately so with a heavy sigh I lift up a leg, trying to keep my balance and not fall over, and give the door in front me a swift kick.

Strangely enough the sound of something thumping to the ground follows the resounding echo of my kick and it's only a moment before the door is wrenched open by none other than a rather rumpled-looking Doctor Watson. My-oh-my he looks a tad bit flustered, I wonder why...

"Mycroft what are you-" he starts before his catches sight of the tray I'm holding; I'll forgive him for his lack of observation due to his current predicament if the sound of rustling sheets is anything to go by, "Oh... uh... thanks..."

Now he's turned quite the healthy shade of red, from a mixture of embarrassment and passion, thankfully the latter is not aimed at me; and apparently he's just realised that his jumper is currently only hanging on him by one arm, literally. Sherlock works fast I must admit.

I nod my head with a patronising smile etched upon it and pass him the tray saying succinctly, "I would highly suggest that Sherlock eats before he engages in any strenuous activities-"

"It's strenuous for you Mycroft because it takes so much effort to find someone to fall for your waist-line!" Sherlock calls out sounding rather muffled and I sigh dramatically; he'll never get past this childish phase of silly taunts will he? No, I suppose he won't.

"As opposed to be positively anorexic Sherlock I must say I rather prefer my current waist-line," I reply sounding as though I'm arguing with a child; which to some effect I am and I most certainly shouldn't encourage his childish behaviour should I?

"Thanks Mycroft," John mutters, looking at the tray intently, ah I've embarrassed him such a shame.

I nod my head in acknowledgement and say quite softly, "you're quite welcome Doctor. I will be on my way now but please take care of Sherlock until he's at least somewhat capable of walking without you as an aid."

John looks up at me and I can immediately see that regardless of Sherlock's boredom, annoyance, and petulance John is going to ensure Sherlock is fully recovered until he's permitted to leave Baker Street; and somehow I think John will accompany him at all times.

I think I'll have to double my surveillance team... oh the paperwork will be appalling.

"Goodbye Mycroft, and thanks; for everything," John replies and I smile at the sincerity of his statement before wisely excusing myself and making my way down stairs, picking up my umbrella and overcoat on the way, before leaving Baker Street and entering my car.

"Hello sir, is he well?" Anthea greets me as I slip into my usual seat and she's still tapping away at her Blackberry; quite the merry little worker she is indeed.

"I do believe Sherlock will be fine my dear; as will Doctor Watson for that matter," I reply and lean back in my seat holding the handle of my umbrella. I close my eyes and I consider the notion of having a quick nap but the sound of a muffled snort of laughter causes me to open my eyes to see Anthea staring determinedly at her Blackberry.

"What is so amusing my dear?" I enquire, genuinely curious since Anthea rarely, if ever laughs at anything she finds amusing; it's normally a sweet smile and a soft, silent giggle.

She looks up at me slowly and I can see that she is trying desperately not to laugh. I frown slightly and it seems that my frown sets her off as she suddenly starts to laugh in earnest; is she on something? I open my mouth to demand an answer when she points at me, correction at what's underneath my overcoat.

I look down and can't help but groan... oh heavens...

I, Mycroft Holmes, man who is always impeccably dressed; wears the best of the best suits, tailored to perfection, the most prestigious of designers and... now sporting a bright pink apron...

Fantastic...


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue at long last

**(Narration)**

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted feeling the rather annoying sensation of déjà vu as he stared out across the glass-walled balcony at the figure he'd been looking everywhere for, "SHERLOCK!" life hated him, and it seemed that it hated the wayward detective as well.

Frantically looking about himself for something, anything, to help him John swiftly stamped down on the bubble of fear growing in his stomach; freaking out wouldn't help Sherlock so it was an irrelevant thing to feel. But he wasn't Sherlock so he still felt it, he just didn't react to it other than to swallow thickly and hurry back the way he'd came. He was hoping that Sherlock could hold his own whilst he hurried over and how stupid was he for picking the wrong building again!

The sound of his beating heart was loud in his ears, keeping time with the sound of his footfalls on the tiled floor as he hurried along the corridor towards the staircase; he was so busy focusing on getting down to Sherlock that he almost missed the suited man ducking into one of the cubicles as he turned the corner. Almost.

Freezing mid-step John had but a moment to recognise the threat and dive to the side as the suited man stood up, gripping what looked to be a rather unfriendly AK-74 (original much) and pointing it directly as the army doctor. Landing in a heap on the floor John kicked out and propelled himself behind the printer-copier machine off to the side, huddling up and trying to pull out his Browning from the waistband of his jeans but damn it that guy was shooting way too close for comfort!

When he finally got the Browning handgun out he knocked off the safety and taking a deep, calming and focusing breath, dove out of his hiding space, landing on the ground on his side and aimed the gun directly at the other shooters head and- BANG!

The resounding shot was loud enough in the quiet room to make John's eardrums hurt but he dismissed the noise as he scrambled to his feet and moved over to the now unmoving shooter; kicking the AK-74 away and checking to see if his aim had been true. Sure enough it had and the guy was now sporting a rather fashionable hole in the middle of his forehead.

Quickly picking p the AK-74 John continued on his way, hurrying into the stairwell and was about to descend the steps when he heard the sound of a door opening a few floors above him. Though he knew Sherlock was in trouble and needed his immediate help, John also knew that when his gut told him something it was a good idea to follow the gut; and right now his gut was telling him to get up those stairs and find out who had opened that door.

Gripping the AK-74 tightly in his hands John quickly and efficiently ascended the stairs all the way up until he came to the door that signalled that he'd reached the rooftop. Carefully and silently John slipped into full military-mode and covertly made his way out onto the rooftop, pausing to make sure the door didn't make any sound as it closed. Stepping lightly on the gravel-like ground John moved over towards the edge of the building, in the direction where he knew Sherlock was, and froze again at what he saw.

Now he was truly glad that he'd listened to his gut instinct because crouching not ten feet from him was a black uniformed man who was looking down the scope of a high-powered Sniper Rifle; aiming at Sherlock! John crept up behind the sniper, making not a sound on the ground, and he felt a growing rage and anger deep inside him roar and growl as he situated himself behind the sniper and with one fell swoop of the AK-74 brought it crashing down on the top of the sniper's head. He knew before the guy hit the ground that he wouldn't be getting back up; the sheer force he'd used and the location he'd hit meant that the sniper's skull had crushed his neck and severed his spinal cord; and he couldn't care less for the guy.

Kneeling down on the ground John placed the AK-74 next to him and positioned the Arctic Warfare Sniper Rifle in his hands. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly John composed himself and allowed his breathing to slow down and become steady and deep. Looking down the scope of the rifle he noticed that Sherlock was standing in the midst of about half-a-dozen armed men, glaring at them defiantly as Moriarty smiled and clapped in amusement. Bastard. How John wanted to shoot the crazy psychotic madman but Sherlock was getting jumped on and John made a split-second decision.

Pulling the trigger John made sure that his bullet hit one of the goons attacking Sherlock, the glass of the building fracturing but not shattering and it seemed that no-one had noticed; which John guessed was because of all the noise, at least he hoped it was that and not that someone had fired off a shot at the same time as him. Quickly and efficiently John fired the rifle three more times before the glass actually shattered and Moriarty's attention was drawn across the way and onto the rooftop John was currently on.

Sherlock, now that he was only against two opponents, dealt with them quickly and effectively as John aimed the rifle at Moriarty's confused face; 'smile at this' he thought as he pulled the trigger. But Moriarty's face wasn't blown to pieces like John had expected and he frowned; checking the rifle he groaned in sheer frustration. He'd ran out of bullets. How many self-respecting sniper's only had four bullets!

Looking back into the scope John watched as Moriarty smirked and high-tailed it out of the place as Sherlock his last opponent, "Damn it!" John snarled as he threw the rifle down and ran towards the staircase; fully intent of reaching Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

**(John's POV)**

If Sherlock ever, I mean, ever does this to me again then I swear to God I'll shoot him and save the criminal world the bother! Again! He's actually done this before though hasn't he... of course he has, he's Sherlock! As if that whole escapade at the swimming pool wasn't enough of a problem, Sherlock then has to go and agree to another meeting with the psycho of crime, without telling me! I'll kill him, I swear I will bloody kill him. Slowly.

And do you know what's worse? What's worse is the fact that I would never have known about the whole 'meeting-thing' if I wasn't paranoid and had set-up some of my own surveillance. Sherlock might have the homeless network and Mycroft might have the government owned spies, but I think mine trumps the pair of them. I have the army; every soldier who I've served with, who isn't overseas, and every soldier I've saved has done the impossible for me. They've done what Mycroft's little hoard of government assassins couldn't; my every day, unremarkable soldiers have located Moriarty and then as an added bonus tracked down Sherlock when he went AWOL. Brother in arms indeed.

Anyway, the whole reason I'm running up this Goddamn stairs is because of Sherlock and his annoying need to do everything alone; oh yeah, he takes me to the crime scenes and he lets me in on certain things but ultimately, because he thinks no-one understands him in his entirety, he thinks he has to do things on his own, without asking for help. And without thinking of the consequences. Arrogant, suicidal, genius of an arse.

By the time I reach the floor I know he's on, sometimes I love the precision of the military, he'll probably be lying in a pool of his own blood, bleeding out his precious life force and I'll have just a moment to see him before he's gone and his eyes dull and he-

Bollocks to that! Faster! Run faster damn it! Stupid leg! Stupid psychosomatic limp! Stupid staircase! Stupid night-time policy of shutting down the lifts! And stupid bloody Sherlock!

Wait-wait-wait! This is the floor, that door John  _that_  one you bloody pratt! Okay, brilliant, I'll just insult myself, that'll help. Yep. Fantastic. I run, and I mean 'run' not a half-hearted jog or a power walk, I mean I run like the Devil is on my bloody heels; or Mrs Hudson when we've broken her best china...

I can feel my heart beating so loud, so fast, and damn it but there's no tremor in my hands; nothing to betray the fact that I've been shot. I love this, this danger, this feeling that I'm doing something that I might not come back from; and that therapist was an idiot! I could never give this feeling up, especially now since Sherlock is like a splash of technicolour in a dull world. He's not bound by social conventions, not contained by the stupid fragility of the human psyche and what can and can't be done. He's just... Sherlock, and I love him for it.

At least, I did love him until I reached the balcony; and what is the point of having a balcony when it's covered in glass? It's nothing more than a bloody viewing room to see the London skyline. Bloody ridiculous. I want to shout and scream and rant and rave and- okay, I don't really, I want to be over there next to him, protecting him, but I'm here, he's there and all I can do is pointlessly shout his name even though there's no hope he'll hear me.

"SHERLOCK!" wow... déjà vu much... where's the cabby? Focus John! "SHERLOCK!" Damn it you stupid, stupid, ignorant, idiot! Damn it to hell! I can't do anything from here except watch him as he loses... and oh God what am I waiting for God's sake? Come on John! Get your head into gear!

Right, back the way I came; running, running and I really hate running. Down the corridor, all the way back to the stairwell door so I can hurry down and hurry to Sherlock's side; quickly now. Only a few hundred steps to go. Turning the corner I see what looks to someone ducking into one of the cubicles and my natural instinct is to stop, and who am I to ignore natural instinct? It's kept me alive thus far. And it's keeping me alive now as well because damn it to Hell, that guy's got a bloody AK-74; shit! Duck, tuck and roll!

The copier's just saved my life; thank you copier. Gun, gun where's my gun? Oh yeah, waistband of my jeans, come on, come on. Whoever this guy is he's got a good aim and Jesus! That bullet just missed my toes! I should buy a gun holster or something for this bloody thing; and yes! It's free; remove the safety and deep breath. On the count of three, dive out, aim and blow his head off... I think I need psychiatric help if I'm enjoying this.

I'm quick to relinquish him of his weapon, he won't be needing it anymore since he's dead, and I'm quick to hurry towards the stairwell; extra alert now just in case there's anymore nasty's out there waiting for me. When I reach the stairwell and open the door I stop because I'm sure, positive, that I've just heard one of the doors above me open and shut. Is there anyone else here? The goon who shot at me was obviously checking the floors making sure no-one was around so what if there's someone upstairs and they're unarmed? I can't leave them to get shot can I? And this AK-74's got a scope on it so if I can't get to Sherlock in time I can always take a shot or two from here, my aim might not be all that good but it'd be enough to dissuade anyone from going after Sherlock. Hopefully.

Right, sorry Sherlock, I promise I'll try and protect you still; I swear I will. Up the stairs I go, and most of the doors are shut, locked so I'm guessing the door that's open is the one I want to go through? Sound logic John, perfectly sound. And the only door that's unlocked is the one onto the rooftop; maybe it's a good thing I came up here afterall...

Carefully I push the door open and step out onto the gravel-like ground, I hate this type of covering they put on the rooftops nowadays; it makes it that bit harder to sneak around. Anyway, quietly and efficiently I'm moving across the rooftop, heading towards the side of the building which Sherlock is closest to, sweeping the rooftop effectively and I'm rewarded with the sight of a uniformed man; probably an ex-soldier, whose crouching down and looks to be assembling a sniper rifle. Of course. I should have known sniper's would have been involved in this. Brilliant. Bloody fantastic.

I come up behind him just in time to stop him from positioning himself properly, to take a shot at my Sherlock the bastard, and with a brutish amount of strength, I bring the butt of the AK-74 down and hit him on top of his head. He's dead before he even hits the ground; being a doctor's useful for some things afterall.

Making another split-second decision I kneel down, placing the AK-74 down next to me and pick up the Arctic Warfare Rifle; good model, and fix the scope so it's to my specifications. Peering down the scope I immediately pick out Sherlock standing in the middle of six guys; oh if we get out of this alive I'm seriously going to murder him. I scan along the floor Sherlock's on and I pause, there he is; the bastard who's caused all this chaos in our lives. What I wouldn't give to blow that manic smile off his face! But there's a reason why he's smiling; there always is with the maniac so I bring the scope back around to Sherlock and that's when whatever restraint I had snapped. All six of those men, six, jump my detective in one fell swoop and there's no chance that he'll fight his way out so I do what is only natural. I aim and shoot the bastards hurting my Sherlock.

Amazingly enough my first shot isn't detected and the glass doesn't shatter; it fractures due to the laws of physics obviously but it doesn't shatter which is quite something. Anyway, I manage three more shots; the second one shatters the glass and I'm quick enough to get a third one in before they wise up. Moriarty's looking shocked and confused, not for long though. I aim for his head, right between his evil eyes and pull the trigger... except he doesn't die, there's no recoil and I've ran out of bullets! Seriously! What self-respecting sniper only has four bullets! Absolutely ridiculous!

Moriarty's running and I can't do anything to stop him; I can't even help Sherlock with those last two goons, even though he's handling them perfectly fine so I do the next best thing. I grab the AK-74 and sprint towards the staircase; I'll either, catch Moriarty and put a bullet between his eyes, or I'll reach Sherlock and ensure he's still breathing.

 

* * *

 

**(Sherlock's POV)**

This isn't a particularly intelligent situation that I've put myself in I must admit. I probably should have informed John, or Mycroft, about this... meeting of mine but the threat of John getting hurt is too much of an incentive for me to keep it to myself; and I'd rather gnaw my own foot off than willingly involve Mycroft in this affair. That being said, I should have had a viable contingency plan just encase this meeting went wrong; which it, undoubtedly, has. But I can't change the past so I'll just have to, as they say, 'deal with it'.

This past week I haven't been acting normal; normal for me at least, and I know that it's worried John but I just couldn't bring him into this, not this time around. When Moriarty is involved it is always better for me to deal with him alone, without any innocent bystanders for Moriarty to target and shoot and burn and kill and-

In addition to the three lackey's in here Moriarty has now deemed it fit to add an addition three more so now I'm against six immediate threats; i.e. the ones who will happily paint the room with my blood, and the most dangerous of all. Brilliant deduction Sherlock. Quite spectacular.

"Oh Sherlock  _darling_! How  _lovely_  to see you so soon!" I really do despise that man, his voice is so grating with its pitched insanity in it; I'm almost offended that Anderson calls me a psychopath when I compare myself to this... crazy boy. He says we're alike, I beg to differ. I have something he'll never have. Thankfully.

"I must concur," I respond, not moving or attempting to find a way out of this; there's no point, I won't get out of this alive, that much I know, "But it's quite rude of you to invite guests; If I'd known we were bringing friends I'd have brought a few of my own."

"Implying you have any Sherlock?" Moriarty chuckles; I think I hate him more than I do Anderson, but Moriarty's got a brain which is a problem, "We both know that you can count your 'friends' on one hand and still have at least three digits spare."

"In regards to that I beg to differ; you have no friends and I sincerely doubt you know what a friend actually is," a biting, scathing remark, so below me but I can't help myself; this man does strange things to me and speaking rashly is one of them.

Moriarty pouts as though I've hurt his feelings, pointless since he needs to have feelings for me to hurt in the first place, and I watch as he strolls towards me; slow, steady and confident paces, he's entirely certain that I won't try anything due to these rather unsurprisingly dull brutes guarding me. How mundane of him to think I would be predictable.

He's less than three feet away from me and that's when he stops; just out of my reach unless I move. Those dullards around me seem to be flexing their muscles in an attempt to intimidate me; how pedestrian, muscles mass counts for nothing if you don't know how to use it correctly and effectively. He smiles at me and mock-whispers, "Tell me Sherlock; how's Johnny-boy?"

Bad idea. Very bad idea. Threats to myself I can handle, they're of no concern to me, but threats to John; even veiled as this one obviously is, is not good. I can feel a monster, a beast deep inside of me, rearing its head and roaring in anger and defiance; it's enraged at Moriarty threatening John... I should let it loose, let it devour the suited fool, let it take him apart agonisingly slowly and give it the satisfaction of watching those dark eyes become void of anything. But I need to think clearly; unhindered for a while, so my base instinct has to be over-rode and I need to continue to play this game of ours.

I don't answer, my throat tightens and constricts almost painfully, and as Moriarty watches I can see triumph growing in his gaze; he thinks he's won this round, and maybe he has, I don't know right now and I don't care. He's moving away and his lackey's are moving towards me; violence is on their minds and I can't fight them all. Two on the far left are two microseconds slower than the one directly in front of me; he's priority then, leader of the lot and the instigator. Remove him quickly and effectively then focus on the rest.

Aim for the jaw; one-third of the way from the chin, right hand side, use half of usual strength and maintain contact for four-point-six seconds. Result; opponent one neutralised.

Second two, targeting my lower abdomen; they're cowards, secondary fighters, followers into battle rather than leaders. Main weaknesses; first opponent has weaker left knee, main target, second opponent is in the beginning stages of arthritis, aim for joints such as shoulders and elbows. Main priorities. Remove threats; immediately.

Sound registers; doesn't relate to current affairs so is irrelevant. Focus on opponents.

Problem though; forgot about other three moving slowly, they're threats too, but I can't fight them all off. Must focus on one or two at a time and hope for the best; the logical outcome however suggests I will be incapacitated within the next four-and-a-half-minutes. Important note; do not go down without a fight!

Swift kick to the left knee of first opponent, result; he's down. Grasp forearm of second opponent; twist and enact karate chop with free hand. Result; arm broken at the elbow, second opponent defeated.

Turning to engage in combat with remaining opponents, ready to assess and analyse their weaknesses; only they've been incapacitated. No longer a threat me but who has done this? I look out of the window, across the way and I see something on the rooftop of the building opposite; a sniper? Why would they have shot Moriarty's men then? Unless they're not on Moriarty's payroll... one of Mycroft's men then? A distinct possibility. I must find out.

Moriarty has fled; coward that he is won't face me on even ground. I will catch him however, one day I will find him and there will be nothing between us; no bodies for him to hide behind. And what that day comes, he will lose; he will die.

 

* * *

 

**(John's POV)**

I can see him; he's safe, he's breathing. Thank bloody God for that! Now I'm going to kill him. Stupid heroic pratt. I got rid of the AK-74, after wiping my prints off it of course, in the plant in the lobby of the building before I strolled out and slipped across the road towards Sherlock. He's looking about himself, confused but composed; and how is it that he can look sexy like that? And I still want to kill him, even if I'm taking note of his absolute sexiness; I'm human!

"Sherlock!" I shout as I hurry across the road; looking both ways because I really wouldn't want to hit ran over right now, and I stop when he looks at me as though I'm just a mirage. Although, since he wasn't expecting me to be here I can understand that response; still not happy with him though, "Sherlock! What the hell did you think you were doing?" I bark at him and he seems to unfreeze from his surprise; he's standing right in front of me quicker than I can blink and his hands are all over me. If I was of the variety where my mind was perpetually in the gutter then I might think he wanted to do unsavoury things to me; but I'm not so I know he's checking to see a) if I'm uninjured and b) if I'm really there. Paranoid much.

"Sherlock! I'm here, I'm breathing, I'm uninjured and  _stop that_!" I exclaim as his hands slip a little lower than what is conventionally acceptable in a public place; correction... a lot lower.

He pauses and looks at me; he's surprised, shocked, confused and just that little bit relieved that I'm alright and the anger inside of me just drains away. He looks so... well, he looks so young and lost, "Sherlock, I'm fine; I promise," I say, my voice is softer now and I can see him start to relax as his minds computes my words into Sherlock's version of _'he's right, he's fine, stop worrying you ninny'_.

He doesn't speak, or he doesn't seem to have managed to master the art of speech at this present moment in time, and instead tugs me along by the arm; he's gripping me so tightly that I think he's afraid that if his grip loosens then I'll disappear. Yep. Definitely paranoid.

I can hear the sound of police sirens in the distance but they're not my concern; my concern is Sherlock and the fact that he's dragging me in the direction of the taxi rank which I know is about five minutes away. Though in Sherlock's case with his long-legs and power-walking abilities it's less than two minutes away; I hate his abnormal height you know.

We're in a black hack and heading towards Baker Street before Sherlock speaks; I'm almost surprised by his voice actually, I thought he'd started on one of his silent periods. Evidently not, "Why were you there John?" his voice is low and it sounds so confused and vulnerable that I find it hard lie to him; it's only a little lie anyway.

"You've been acting strange all week; I was worried so I followed you," I answer; half the truth and it's entirely conceivable that it's the whole truth. But I'm talking to Sherlock here so if he believes this then I've either become the world's best liar, or the detective's not actually paying attention. Could go either way really.

"You shouldn't have come," Sherlock whispers quietly, not looking at me; he's staring out to the window but I know he's watching my reaction in the reflection.

"You shouldn't have faced Moriarty on your own!" I hiss as I lean closer to him and tilt my head so I can see his face as opposed to just his reflection, "You wouldn't have come out of there alive if I hadn't of followed you Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock is silent; big surprise there, he doesn't want to tell me. He doesn't want to talk about this, well tough; I'm not going anywhere until he tells me why he didn't take me. I have an idea but I want him to confirm it; or I want him to hit me with a scathing remark which will prove to me that he's fine.

He's silent for the rest of the journey back to Baker Street and I feel like hitting my head against the window; stupid bloody idiot! I'll wring his bloody neck for this! I swear I will. He throws a twenty pound note at the cabby; doesn't even bother to check if it's right amount and I'm too concerned with hurrying after him to make sure myself. When he opens the door to Baker Street he steps in and waits for me to follow before closing the door and leaning against it; now this is unusual, and I'm seriously worried. What if something happened to him? Something that I didn't see. Oh God, what if he's been hurt and I didn't catch it!

"Sherlock?" I say tentatively as I reach out a hand and place it gently on his arm. The response is instantaneous. Seriously, I didn't have the chance to blink. I'm up against the wall, my wrists pinned almost painfully by my head, with a panting Sherlock towering over me.

"John..." he whispers, his voice low and deep, oh Jesus... condemn to me to hell and eternal damnation; just give me Sherlock and I'll never complain. I swear...

His head moves down, slowly and when his lips touch mine I feel like I'm burning alive; so hot, so needy, burning me and boiling me in my skin. I respond to the touch of his lips on mine, pushing up desperately and deepening the kiss; his tongue sweeps across my lips languidly and my knees weaken as I moan into our kiss. His hands slide my wrists up along the wall and using one hand he pins them above my head; his free hand runs over my chest, light and teasing as I continue to moan and stand on the tips of my toes.

His hand slips underneath my jumper and his hands are cold, so so cold, but by God they're so smooth; like marble and I shiver in delight as his hand searches higher and higher along my torso until the cold flesh sweeps across my nipple. I groan and my back arches almost upon its own accord as Sherlock presses closer to me and pinches my nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

I strain against his hand pinning my wrists; I want to touch him, oh Jesus, I need to touch him, but he just holds on tighter and presses against me harder. I can feel him, all of him against me, and he's so hard that it's like being poked by a piece of metal in the side but I don't care about that... I just care about him and his- hands...

His hand continues to taunt me and he breaks off our kiss, I whimper at the loss of his lips on mine but it turns into a sort of half-moan as he attaches his lips to my neck and begins to kiss, suck, lick and bite along my neck and jaw-line. I can't think properly... all I can do is feel...

Somehow he manages to get me up the stairs and into his room before I notice anything; sneaky git. He's got both of his hands underneath my jumper now and as he pulls it up and over my head his left leg snakes out and he trips me so I land in a heap on the bed. As I lie there, panting and needy, he slithers along the bed, along the length of my body, until he's lying entirely over me and his arms are supporting him as he raises his upper body up and grinds his hips down against mine. Oh!

I arch up, searching for more friction, but as I do he swoops down on me and bites my neck; hard. I yelp and then moan in pleasure as he licks the abused flesh slowly and it's so damn erotic that it should be illegal or something. I can feel one his hands running down our bodies and I'm dimly aware of the sounds of zippers being undone but he's still assaulting my neck and I can't do much except gurgle and moan in pleasure.

When he pulls back away from my neck I growl in annoyance and pin him with a stare as he kneels over me, straddling my hips with his zipper undone and his belt loose... oh... of course... he's looking at me with a question in his eyes; a question that I'd be mad to say no to, so I nod and he quickly sheds his pants and he's pulling down my jeans before I actually realise he's doing it.

We're left with our boxers and I reach up to run a hand along Sherlock's flat stomach in a gesture that's more intimate than it is lustful; I want to feel him in a way that would show him how much he means to me, I want him to know the lengths I'd go to just to protect him, the lengths I have gone to. He shivers as my hand trails down to the waistband on his boxers and I decided to take the initiative; I grasp the material tightly in my fingers and pull until I see him. Every last, magnificent bit of him.

He almost collapses on top of me and I can feel his hands gripping my boxers and in one fell swoop he's shoved them down past my knees and I kick them off as he does the same with his own. Now we can see each other, entirely and as his hands run along my arms and my chest I smile and kiss him; deep and loving as he grinds his hips down against mine sending shockwaves of pleasure along my body. We're touching and grasping and moving against each other so much that I'm almost offended when he pulls away from me and rolls to the side.

I lie there, panting and trying to get myself back under control and I hear the distinctive sound of a drawer being opened, something being taken out and then the subsequent 'click' of a lid. Within moments Sherlock's draped across me again and he stares at me, silently questioning me as to if this is okay; whether he can continue and all I can do is raise an eyebrow and smirk at him in a challenging way. I'm not backing down from this; no, bloody way.

Sherlock's fingers are slick and cold when he presses them against my opening and I tense automatically, but he's stroking my cock and it's not long before I relax and he presses a finger into me. It's so fucking intoxicating that I can't speak... can't do anything except moan and press down on his finger as he stretches me and strokes my prostate. By the time he adds a second finger and scissors me I'm writhing on the bed and I arch up as he presses against my prostate; Jesus Christ!

He slips his fingers out of me and I want to complain but all that comes out is a desperate keening sound which is replaced by a cry of pleasure as his cock presses against my entrance and he pushes in slowly... I can't... it's... it's indescribable... just... oh God...

And then he's moving and whatever ability to think or speak goes right out of the bloody window... harder, harder, oh please Sherlock! Harder! Yes Yes! Just there... harder... more... please... Oh God... heaven isn't as good as this... Jesus... Lord... Just... there... no no no... stop... I'm not going to-

Sleep seems like a good thing right now... yeah, a good thing... and Sherlock's curled up next to me so yeah... really good idea...


End file.
